by Jason Kasper
“If in danger,” Peng replied sadly, “junta will call airstrikes. Perhaps win. Perhaps not. But fighting will get worse. If Kokang and Wa armies lose, we have no home. Kun, we should leave now. Return only if our armies win. Not remain to plan next failure. Not endanger the family.”
Kun’s eyes opened at this last word.
“Where is your family?” I asked.
Tiao glowered at me. “Not your problem, America.”
“Sure it is. They’re not here, are they? You’re mentioning family, but if they were in immediate danger you’d have left already. You want to keep them safe? That means no one in North America blaming you for a breach of contract, no chance that they try to find you to right a wrong.”
“This threat?”
“There’s no threat here, I just—”
“Arrogance,” Tiao shouted. “We give refund, you want talk boss. We drive Kokang, you want mission. You fail—”
Peng interrupted, “If Kokang Army did not attack, you be on way to Insein Prison. Right now.”
I opened my mouth to respond when Cong entered the room holding a steel tray with a teapot and cups. Kneeling, he filled four cups and handed them to us, starting with Kun.
Finally I replied, “If you think prison is bad, you have no idea what kind of people I work with. They are beyond ruthless—women, children, nothing is sacred. I tried to assume the risk so none of you would have to, and I failed.” I looked to Kun. “Now I’m asking for your help.”
Peng gave a short laugh, but fell momentarily silent under Tiao’s irate stare. Then Peng accused, “Your employer so ruthless, why you pretend to care about us?”
“I have no other choice.” I looked to Kun again. “I am desperate.”
Cong made a move to sit, stopping upon a quick stream of Chinese from Kun. After pausing to look at me, Cong turned and left the room.
Directing my gaze back to Peng, I continued, “I’m not trying to endanger your family, I’m trying to keep them safe. My goals and yours are served by my return with the item. I’m not telling you to remain here until the Kokang Army succeeds or fails—I’m telling you to give me one more day. And some men. Kun, with all respect, the reasons you authorized my mission in the first place still apply. Only one thing has changed: the tactics we use to recover the item.”
Tiao hissed, “Not ‘we,’ America. You. One chance. You fail.”
Kun spoke at last. “David, what do you propose?”
I spun my teacup in my hand, the heat of the tea scorching me through the porcelain.
“That we plan another mission.”
“Plan?” Tiao shook his head. “Your face broken. By junta. In depot.”
Peng leaned forward and stabbed a finger at me. “You failed, now you want us do work. For you.”
“Not for me. With me.”
Tiao shook his head briskly, his face reddening. “Now you want go back depot. Of course. With us protect you.”
“You won’t be protecting me. You’d be following me, because I’d be leading the mission.”
Peng shouted, “You think you lead us? This is not your home. This is our fight.”
“When the bullets are flying,” I corrected him, “it’s everyone’s fight.”
I watched Kun’s elderly face brimming with some unseen emotion—frustration? Outrage? I turned to him.
“Kun, in the temple you said that if I succeeded, it would be in a way neither of us expected. Let me prove you right.”
Peng chuckled to himself and then took a sip of tea. A slight smile played on his lips as he retorted, “If we go near depot, the cannon will destroy us. No question.”
Kun made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I will hear David’s plan.”
With that, all eyes in the room swung to me: Kun’s expression curious, Peng’s bearing a petulant undertow of irritation, and Tiao’s now bordering on fury.
“It must be our plan, not mine,” I began carefully, “because all of you know this land better than I ever could. We’ve now seen what kind of trouble one overconfident American can get into, so let’s figure this out together. There is only one approach to the depot—up the hill, in the sights of the anti-aircraft gun. Can we get a sniper to take out the S-60 team?”
Peng shook his head resolutely. “Fortified positions. High ground. S-60 gunner behind armored plates.”
“Then we’ll eliminate the S-60 altogether.”
“Our rockets not so accurate. Not at this distance.”
“Mortars?”
“Again. Not accurate enough. If they go through roof, could destroy item.”
Tiao confirmed, “Peng right. We wait for junta to burn depot. Then, look for item.”
“This the only way,” Peng agreed. “We search remains of depot after fire.”
“That’s it,” I gasped. “Fire.”
Tiao nodded, thinking I was agreeing with him.
“No, I don’t mean we let the depot burn. In America we have a saying, ‘Fight fire with fire.’ If we can’t take out the S-60 by any other means, then we destroy it with something just as powerful.”
Peng frowned, setting down his cup. “No cannons in Kokang. Not even good mortars.”
“Because you’re the smallest ethnic army.” I looked from him to Kun. “That’s why the junta is picking a fight with your slice of the region first, right? To destabilize the border groups by attacking the easiest target. But you’ve got an alliance with the Wa Army—two thousand fighters coming, right? Have they got a cannon, Peng?”
He considered the question. “Yes. A ZPU-1.”
“Good, we’ll have them position it to fire on the depot. Take out the S-60, then blow a hole in the side of the depot, opposite the item. I’ll take a team inside.”
“Junta counterattack would destroy us.”
“If we stay in place,” I agreed, “but that’s not what we’re going to do. Let’s say we get in. Tiao, you used to be junta infantry. How many men to hold off a counterattack for a short time, until we can retrieve the item?”
“Twenty, thirty.”
“Let’s call it twenty. And I’ll need ten inside the depot to clear out any resistance.”
Tiao shook his head. “Thirty men, get seen. Get shot.”
“We’ll stage close, wait for the Wa Army’s cannon to take out the S-60. First shot is our trigger to move; as we advance up the hill without the risk of S-60 fire, the Wa Army’s anti-aircraft piece fires into the depot wall. Breach is clear as we reach the building; I take a ten-man raiding team inside, the other twenty set up blocking positions to prevent Burmese reinforcements from getting to us until the item is recovered. And as soon as we escape, the Wa Army can fight the junta counterattack. They give us a few shots from their cannon, we give them all the Myanmar Army soldiers they care to kill. At least until any airstrikes arrive.”
No immediate rebuttal from any of the three men. I decided to press the advantage.
“This serves every party—it degrades junta forces, strengthens the alliance between the Kokang and the Wa armies, and allows us to get our item. There is risk, yes, but it delays your departure to safe territory by only a day. It allows you to deliver on your promise to my employer. And even if we fail to get the item, this plan ensures long-term protection for your family because you’ve taken every possible measure to fulfill your contract. Kun”—I looked at him expectantly—“this is the best plan we’re going to get.”
Kun didn’t immediately answer, or even appear to be interested. Instead his eyes fluttered toward the ceiling, dancing amid the flecks of sunlit dust floating in the air above us. Tiao and Peng waited, the silence hanging heavy.
At last Kun said raspily, “If the Kokang Army will contribute the required men, and the Wa Army their cannon, then I will approve this operation.”
Peng was expressionless, merely raising his tea cup to take another sip. Tiao looked frustrated that he hadn’t dissuaded Kun, but beneath it I could see something else—a ripple of excitement,
of eager anticipation. He was looking forward to a fight.
“Thank you, Kun,” I said, feeling my shoulders relax as I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “When can we get confirmation from the ethnic armies?”
“I can have a Kokang lieutenant here before sunset. His name is Zixin.”
Zixin strode in the door two hours later, a squat predator in black street clothes. His eyes were narrow and wide-set, and he carried himself with an alert posture and visibly military bearing. I smiled at the sight of him. Kun followed just behind, looking mournful, though I couldn’t imagine why. Zixin appeared more brash general than young lieutenant, and if he was the leader of our twenty-man perimeter security, then we were in good shape.
I approached Zixin, appreciating his muscular bulk all the more upon realizing he was close to a foot shorter than me. He shook my hand firmly, easily.
“Mr. David. A pleasure.” Heavily accented English, without the extent of the education that had polished Peng, Tiao, and Cong.
“Thank you for coming, Zixin. Has Kun spoken to you about the plan?”
“Yes.” He nodded sharply. “I get twenty men.”
“Wonderful.”
“Except—”
“I’ll take Tiao, Peng, and Cong on the raiding force along with four of your men, leaving sixteen for perimeter security. We can make do with that.”
“Mr. David, mission cancel.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wa Army retreat,” he explained. “One hour ago.”
I almost gasped. Victory was so close at hand.
Zixin continued, “Border alliance now broken. Sorry, Mr. David.”
I looked to Kun. “Get their cannon up here.”
“They will not—”
“320,000 US dollars says they will. Split my employer’s refund—you get half instead of nothing, they get the other half in exchange for one cannon with crew.”
Kun shook his head sadly. “You do not understand; this is a political decision. The junta has negotiated safety of the Wa region in exchange for success of their Kokang offensive. The Wa leadership will not endanger their people in exchange for money. China would double your proposed payment to maintain border stability, and do so without hesitation.”
“Hire the cannon crew as mercenaries, then. We are one anti-aircraft gun away from victory here.”
“This is impossible. The ethnic armies may betray one another, but never their own blood. This is not how things work here. There will be no cannon. We are done.”
I blurted, “There are no impossible odds, only lacking imaginations.”
Kun shuddered with distaste, extending an upturned palm toward me. “If our imaginations are lacking, then please…enlighten us.”
I closed my eyes in frustration, a blitzkrieg exploding in my mind.
The hopeless futility of it all—months of rehabilitation and solitude, an unimaginable opportunity to seize everything I wanted, only to find a military intervention in progress. Ian in captivity, and the entire universe conspiring against my every effort to bend the world to my will, to slay the Handler, who sat godlike atop a throne of human carnage. Sage holding the knife to my throat in the cabin—
“David.”
Focus. None of that mattered right now. The item in the depot, the depot defended by the Myanmar Army. At least twenty defenders on site, but they’d be able to reinforce quickly from other defensive positions in Laukkai. An anti-aircraft gun keeping watch from the hilltop, and my mind’s ability to formulate a plan in the next sixty seconds would either redeem Ian and me, or condemn us both.
Sage’s voice: You’re a shooter, not a strategist.
“Mr. David,” Zixin said impatiently.
I’d never planned a real military mission—not as a young Ranger private, certainly not as a West Point cadet discharged before infantry officer training. But I’d been on so many raids in training and combat, both military and criminal—and I’d seen the depot up close and in person. I mentally reviewed the terrain and approaches around the building, snapshots of my infiltration and escape flashing through my mind in rapid succession. Tiao, Peng, and Cong speaking English, Zixin as a Kokang Army lieutenant with twenty men. No means to eliminate the anti-aircraft crew with sniper, mortar, or another cannon; no means to approach undetected in daylight; not enough night vision to conduct such a large mission after sunset. A rebel counterattack in progress—
“David!” Kun shouted.
Cetan taunting me. The pleasure in choking him. Stripping off his boots to make my escape—
My eyes burst open. “I’ve got it!”
The ambient light in the room seemed blinding, like I was waking from a drunken blackout, then my vision cleared and I saw both Zixin and Kun looking at me strangely.
I pointed at Kun. “You’ve got a hand in everything illegal going on in Kokang. Drugs, guns, and humans require an extensive smuggling network, one that runs throughout the country.”
“What is your point?”
“Myanmar Army uniforms!”
He shrugged absently. “So? What about them?”
“You must have some on hand,” I continued. “Probably police uniforms and passports, too, but we don’t need those. We need Myanmar Army uniforms. Enough for Zixin’s blocking force and the raiding party, so twenty-five or thirty should do it.”
Kun lowered his chin, flashing me a look of disappointment. “David, these uniforms are not easy to come by. We may have six or eight here, but that is it. To get more requires a purchase from my contacts in Napidaw, maybe three days to arrive.”
“No time—they could burn the depot any day now, and probably would have already if the Kokang Army hadn’t counterattacked. We have no time to spare. However many uniforms you have, that’s the size of our raiding party.”
Zixin grunted, “This does not solve problem.”
I threw my arms up. “Don’t you get it? We don’t hide the raid force from the Myanmar Army, we present it to them. We approach uphill in broad daylight, pretend to be a junta squad with a broken radio. They won’t risk shooting their own troops, and they won’t know we’re imposters until we’re close enough to take out the guards—and seize the S-60.”
Kun spoke quickly. “Then perimeter security moves in—”
“And since Peng knows how to shoot the S-60, he uses it to blow a hole in the depot. I take the raiding party inside, and we fight our way to the item. Everything else is according to the original plan. Forget the Wa Army, we don’t need them—this is how we do this operation, right now, with the resources we’ve got.”
Zixin looked confused, unable to follow the rapid-fire English between Kun and me. Kun then spoke to him in Chinese, and Zixin’s wide-set eyes creased with recognition.
He gave as much of a smile as he was capable of—in his case, a muted slant of his mouth. “Might work.”
“No, it will work.” My pulse was quickening, hands gesturing excitedly. “And when it does, it will elevate the fame of the Kokang Army. The raiders will be heroes to the Kokang people.” I glanced from Zixin to Kun. “This victory will cement your reputation with international criminal networks and secure your legacy for another decade of business. We’ll need to start rounding everyone up, and move as soon as possible.”
Kun pressed a hand to my shoulder. “You are forgetting one thing.”
“What? We’ve got the men, the plan, the uniforms and weapons, and the balls to pull it off. That’s all we need.”
“The raid will occur in daylight, yes? And you will move with the men in Myanmar Army uniforms?”
“Absolutely. I’ll stay near the back until we’re close enough for them to see I’m white anyway. What am I forgetting?”
His expression lightened with amusement. “Your beard, David. This is visible at great distance. It will have to go away.”
I half chuckled, taken aback at this grievous oversight, as Kun continued, “I have some stolen straight razors from China. Do you know how to use one?”
“Of course.” I slapped him on the arm. “I’m a former prisoner of war, not a complete failure.”
I stared at the face in the mirror—at the deep green, unflinching eyes; at my long, dark blond hair roughly combed back; at the coarse beard clinging to my face. In that moment, I thought of my exile in the Dominican Republic—stranded in the safe house, drinking and writing the story of my time with Boss’s team. Back then I’d come to the bathroom mirror to stare at myself as I played Russian roulette with my .454 revolver, watching the dancing green eyes in the mirror, reveling in the burst of guilty adrenaline that flushed into my bloodstream with every empty click of the chamber.
Beads of water clung to my facial hair like dew. How long had it been since my father taught me to use a straight razor? I was still a teenager then, long before the military had necessitated rushed pre-sunrise shaves with cartridge razors and canned foam.
What was I becoming? A purple ring lined my blackened right eye, my cheekbones were mottled with bruises, my lip was split by the junta assault, the bridge of my nose bore the red slash of torn skin. My eyes were the same, yet different somehow—less impulsive and more calculated, colored with the things I had seen in Somalia and Brazil, reflecting a grim determination to succeed in freeing Ian at all costs. Since my journey of vengeance had begun, I’d met the Handler, stared into his amber eyes, smuggled in a gun to attempt his assassination. An intervention by Sage, followed by months in the wilderness watching eagles glide on thermals high above the pine trees, snow-capped mountains in the distance, alone with a mind that had turned from enemy to ally, from self-destruction to salvation.
There was no badger brush or shave cream here; instead, I used a half-bar of soap to hand lather a mass of suds, rubbing them into my beard with my fingertips.
I’d gone after the item in the depot by myself, the sum total of my willpower, experience, instincts coming up inadequate. I’d gone as far as I could as a lone operator; now I needed to become something more. I would not fail again. Even if I sacrificed myself in the mission, I would ensure the item made its way back to Sage, that it succeeded in its intended purpose. In the past I’d failed everyone close to me: Karma, Boss’s team, even Parvaneh, though she alone had lived to resent me for it. Ian was the only person left to save, my final chance at redemption.
