He controlled his breathing, forcing his heart rate lower in preparation for his last stand, his finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes darted to the side – a fallen tree, rotting, but possibly still solid enough to provide cover. He would take out the leader first, a straightforward kill shot, and then dive for the log and pick off as many of the men as he could before they nailed him. The prospect was grim, but Reggie had long ago resigned himself to death, and a small part of him believed that going out in a blaze might be preferable to a slow decline in the climate-controlled air of an office in Washington.
The lead man peered into the brush, now on alert, and then his companion raised his rifle. The leader said something in rapid-fire Laotian, and the man nodded and began an approach. Reggie steadily raised the Browning and drew a bead on the man’s sweating face, and then dropped his aim to the center of his chest – a shot to the torso at that range was a sure thing, a head shot less certain.
The man kept coming and Reggie’s finger tightened on the trigger. As he was squeezing it, the man froze, his eyes wide. Reggie let some pressure off as the gunman backed carefully away, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him, not on Reggie. He returned to the column, and Reggie understood what had happened to save the trafficker’s life when he pantomimed flaps opening at the side of his neck as the others laughed.
The group continued on its way and Reggie turned his attention to the brush, where he was sure one of the myriad king cobras that called the area home was lurking. He maintained his position for five minutes, eyes roaming over the jungle floor, before rising and making his way gingerly to the trail, giving the suspect area a wide berth. Aside from being deadly, cobras were fiercely territorial, and he didn’t want to tempt fate twice in a handful of minutes.
He veered west and made it to a clearing near the river. After checking the satellite phone signal and altering his position slightly, he made a call.
His control answered in seconds. “What happened?”
“I had company. Some of the local rabble. But I can talk now.”
“Is the situation stable?”
“As much as any around here.”
“We heard from the Thai guide – they’re moving into Myanmar this morning. They found the plane and will hit the trail at dawn.”
“So too late for me to join them?”
“Affirmative.”
“Why didn’t they wait?”
“The guide said that it was a nonstarter. There’s a warlord in control of the area, and a local is going to act as their envoy to ensure safe passage. He’s got ties to the Shans. But the more unfamiliar faces, the more risk, so he didn’t want to chance it. The local doesn’t know this is an agency op, either, and explaining you would have taken some doing.”
“I get it. How should I proceed?”
“We have the approximate coordinates for the plane. You should shadow them if you can pick up their trail to the wreck site.” The control told him the longitude and latitude, and he fished an aluminum shaft pen from his pocket and wrote the information on a slip of paper.
“Should I make myself known?”
“Only if absolutely necessary. The guide understands he’s to retrieve anything that looks pertinent: remains of computers, flash drives, CDs, that sort of thing. Although given the circumstances, it’s unlikely there’s going to be much besides wreckage.”
“Why don’t I just go through it if I arrive first?”
“You won’t be able to from where you are. They’ve got a hell of a head start.”
“Roger that. What can you tell me about the Shans?”
The control gave him a brief rundown, and when he was done, Reggie was silent for several moments. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “Any chance of getting me some backup? All I’ve got is a pistol. Sounds like I could use SEAL Team Six.”
“We discussed it. We’re putting out the word to see if we can locate any friendlies in Myanmar. But don’t count on it. Best case, maybe we can get you some heavier ordnance.”
Which meant he was on his own. Reggie knew how the system worked. They wanted to keep him deniable, and a larger presence would jeopardize that. At the end of the day, Reggie was expendable, as were all field assets. The mission always came first.
“I’ll check back in once I’m across the river. Don’t bother calling. I’m shutting the phone off to save battery. Sounds like I’m going to be out here a while.”
“Understood.”
Reggie powered down and considered his next step. He’d need to find a way across the Mekong, which was easily three hundred yards at its narrowest point in that region, so negotiating it on his own was out of the question. Which meant he’d need a boat. Of course, the captain was history now, Reggie having moved from his campsite, assuming the Thai ever returned.
He set off north, hoping that he could find a native who would exchange safe passage for a fistful of dollars. Reggie was confident he would – the only question was how much time it would take to find someone.
Chapter 32
Joe led the group to the Mekong River, where one of his men had arranged a pair of dugouts to ferry them across the sprawling span of muddy rushing water. They climbed aboard, one of the precarious craft carrying Allie, Drake and Spencer, the other with Joe and Uncle Pete, who was quieter than usual. Their captain was a reed-thin man whose face was etched by a lifetime of hardship, and when he grinned a gap-toothed greeting, he looked like a demonic carving from one of the Khmer temples.
The trip across the river took five minutes, the tiny motor mounted to the back of the canoe barely able to negotiate the current. When the first boat arrived at the far side, they disembarked while the man watched the bank nervously. Once on land they waited for Joe and Uncle Pete, whose boat was slower, and Drake adjusted the ratty backpack strapped to his shoulders – one of three castoffs Joe had offered to lend them. Surprisingly, he didn’t charge them the price of a business jet to do so. They’d packed as many provisions as Joe could find them in the village, and each carried three curved thirty-round magazines for the AK-47s Joe had handed them.
“Chinese production, but reliable. You lose one, cost you a grand.”
“How much per bullet?” Spencer asked, his face serious.
“On the house, up to the first thirty, so make every shot count.”
Joe had grinned and explained that they would only need the weapons once they were in the disputed zone. While they were in established Shan territory, they’d be as safe as in their mother’s arms. Spencer had looked at him doubtfully but remained silent, and Drake had shaken his head and gone to help Allie pack her kit.
Birds called from the branches of the tall trees as Joe led them forward. Earlier, they’d agreed to remain silent until he rendezvoused with his Myanmar contact – a lieutenant who reported to General Yawd Serk, who headed up the rebel organization. That group, officially called the Shan State Army – South, had risen to power when the original Shan State Army dissolved in 1995.
The members of the group, as Joe informed them, wore actual uniforms and were well equipped with weapons from the U.S. and China, and appeared to be prosperous from their drug trafficking as well as clandestine funding from the American government.
“Why would the U.S. support a drug cartel?” Allie had asked.
Joe had shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
They began the trek through the jungle hills, sticking to the trails that snaked around the rises, the mud soon caking their boots with reddish-brown. After four hours of fast hiking, they arrived at a two-lane strip of battered asphalt running north to south, where a small Buddhist temple sat at the roadside, the sun blinding as it reflected off the curves of its golden dome. Three men, all in green camouflage uniforms, waited in the shade. Beside them were two of the sorriest tuk-tuks ever built and a motorcycle, all coated with a thick layer of mud.
One of the men detached himself from his companions and greeted Joe with a nod of his hea
d. They spoke in hushed tones, and then Joe turned to Allie. “This is the welcome committee. They brought the vehicles for us – otherwise it would be a two-day walk, easy. He said the track is pretty decent, so we should be able to make it to their camp by nightfall.”
“They aren’t worried about an aerial attack from the Myanmar military?”
“It’s been quiet for a few years. Everything’s settled down, and there’s a cautious truce in place, even if neither side officially acknowledges it.” Joe walked over and inspected the tuk-tuks. “Two people will fit in each. I’ll ride bitch on the bike.”
Joe asked the Shan fighters a question, and they nodded in unison. Joe set his pack down, extracted a few mangos and a banana, and held them out to Allie and Drake. “Lunch time. They said we have ten minutes, and then we’ve got to get moving. Even they don’t want to brave the trails after dark.”
The company ate their fruit and were soon on their bouncing way. The tuk-tuks periodically slid in the mud, but the drivers were skilled enough to avoid disaster. The going was agonizingly slow, each slope posing a substantial challenge to the small engines, which buzzed like lawn mowers as the pilots gave them full throttle.
They stopped after three hours, and the drivers refilled the fuel tanks from plastic jugs. Then they were on the second leg, where the terrain became more treacherous with each mile. When twilight arrived, the men switched on their lights, and Joe called out from his position on the rear of the motorcycle. “Won’t be long now. He says we’re only a few klicks away.”
Joe’s optimism proved overstated, and it was pitch black when they pulled around a bend and saw fires glowing in a large clearing. Tents ringed the area, and they could make out soldiers patrolling the perimeter.
The vehicles drew to a stop in front of what looked like a command tent, the structure larger than those surrounding it, and the riders cut the motors. Everyone disembarked, and a short older man with a neatly clipped gray mustache approached, limping slightly as he neared. Joe nodded to him and offered a small respectful wai. The man mirrored the gesture and then studied the new arrivals. After a few uncomfortable moments, he said something Joe seemed to understand. Joe turned to them.
“This is Colonel Htut Leng. He commands this outpost. His word is law here. The only higher authority is the general, and of course, God.” Joe grinned. “And I’m not sure that’s the correct order.”
Leng motioned for them to move to one of the fires, where two logs had been pushed near to serve as benches. Leng lowered himself onto one and Joe sat opposite him. Allie joined Joe, trailed by Drake and Spencer. Uncle Pete reluctantly sat at the far end of the colonel’s log, appearing ill at ease.
Leng began speaking, offering what seemed like a monologue. When he was done, Joe waited as a sign of respect before translating.
“He says that while we are allies of sorts, your permits are meaningless to him, as they were issued by a rogue state he doesn’t recognize. So he respectfully declines your request to go in search of the ruins.”
Drake bristled, but Spencer eyed him calmly and he quieted himself before saying anything. “So that’s the opening salvo? How long do you think this will take?”
“These people love to negotiate. It’s like the national pastime. It could last hours.” Joe winked at Allie. “But I brought a healthy supply of rice wine, so we might be able to shorten it up some. We’ll see. It’s my special bottling – probably forty proof instead of around fifteen.”
“No weed? What’s wrong with them?” Drake asked.
“Not their bag, man. But you’ll all be expected to drink some. No way around it, or you’ll seem rude.”
“Where are we going to sleep tonight?”
“They should provide tents. If not, it’s the stars for our roof.”
“Meaning periodic rain,” Drake said.
“No plan’s perfect.” Joe extracted a plastic jug from his pack and held it aloft, his eyes shining bright in the firelight. He said something to the colonel, who first refused, and then acquiesced.
“Oh, brother,” Drake said, and Joe gave him a hard stare before taking a pull from the jug and handing it to Leng, who snapped his fingers at a nearby underling. Moments later a handful of tin cups materialized and Joe nodded gratefully. Leng took a deep drink from the jug and set it down so they could pour themselves portions, and then belched loudly and smiled in appreciation. Joe matched his grin and pointed to the jug.
“Fill everyone’s up, but don’t pour much. I have a feeling we’re going to need all the firepower I can muster here.”
Spencer rose and did as instructed, spilling an inch of the amber liquid into the cups before handing it back to Joe. Uncle Pete stood and took one, and Drake picked two up and offered one to Allie. She made a small grimace and took it. Leng chuckled. Joe held the jug aloft and offered a toast, and everyone raised their cups and took cautious sips as Joe chugged a healthy swallow, blinked twice, and passed the jug back to Leng.
Allie almost choked when the liquor hit the back of her throat, and it was all she could do not to gag. Drake’s reaction was only slightly better, whereas Spencer and Uncle Pete could have been drinking tea.
Drake’s eyes watered as he held the cup. “Wow. That’s gasoline.”
Joe ignored him, now in a hushed discussion with Leng. Allie elbowed Drake. “You want mine too?”
He shook his head. “Don’t want to be rude.”
“Bastard.”
“Have I told you how beautiful you are when I’m drinking?” Drake paused. “Wait, that didn’t come out right.”
Her eyes became slits. “Oh, I got the message.”
“No, I meant it’s easier to say so when…never mind.”
“If you can find anything attractive about me after three days in the jungle, you’ve got a more vivid imagination than even Joe does,” Allie said, and took another small taste of the wine. “God, that’s foul,” she said, smiling like it was wonderful. “I wonder if I’ll go blind.”
Joe twisted toward her. “Leng says he likes you.”
“I hope that’s not a condition for us to go in,” she replied evenly.
“It is now, but let’s see how the night goes. At least we’re horse-trading, not being blocked completely.”
“It’s charming to view me as a dumb animal to argue over,” Allie said, the smile frozen on her face.
“Cultural. Nothing personal. Don’t worry. I’ll work around it.”
“Do that,” Drake said.
An hour went by, and then another, the jug level dropping steadily until it was empty. Both Joe and Leng appeared to be in fine spirits, but Joe seemed surprised when Leng called his lieutenant over and growled an order. The man ran to the command tent and came back with a clay bottle. Joe grinned, and Leng poured everyone another portion, and then tipped the bottle to his mouth and gulped a mouthful. He sighed contentedly and the drinking ritual continued, the only positive that this spirit was weaker than Joe’s knockout potion.
Eventually that bottle was finished as well, and Joe sat forward, now clearly in his cups. Leng motioned into the darkness, and two young men with sergeant’s stripes approached. Joe nodded and turned to Allie. “These are our escorts. Never mind their names. We can call them Dick and Harry.”
“What? Wait. We don’t want these guys to know where the ruins are, exactly – or the plane.”
“Well, that wasn’t an option. And I had to promise to cut him in on the booty. He wants an even share. I told him that’s not a problem – a five-way split seems more than fair.”
“You can’t agree to that,” Spencer protested.
“Too late. It was a condition.”
“And it’s not a five-way split. Uncle Pete isn’t taking a cut,” Drake corrected.
“Oh, I didn’t think he was. I figured you’d want me to have a slice since I’m going so far above the call of duty.”
“Absolutely not,” Drake said. “It’s not negotiable.”
Joe shrugg
ed, and when he spoke, his voice sounded less inebriated. “You want me to tell him you said he can suck it? He might not react well. Fair warning.”
Drake looked to Allie and then Spencer. “It’s your call. Neither of us has as much riding on the outcome as you do.”
Spencer swallowed the dregs of his cup, tossed it in front of him, and stared into the dimming flames. He sat silently for a long spell, and when he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper. “Seems like it’s screw Spencer year, huh? Hell yes, they can have it. Hundred percent of nothing’s nothing, if my calculator’s right.”
Joe grinned and returned to Leng, who beamed at them all drunkenly when Joe broke the news. After much bowing and scraping, Dick and Harry escorted them to a pair of tents, while Joe sat with Leng, a third container of liquor having materialized in order to celebrate the auspicious alliance. Drake, Spencer, and Allie climbed into one of the tents, exhausted from the day’s march, and after saying good night to each other, curled up and went to sleep, the morning rushing at them with the speed of a runaway train.
Chapter 33
Mong Lin, Myanmar
Jiao yawned and stretched as he bedded down on a rough wood-framed cot in the tiny farming village where he’d called it a night after a long journey from the river. His source had checked in the day before and alerted the Chinese about where the Americans were headed, and he knew he’d have to tread cautiously if he was to make it without being discovered. His men were camped out in a nearby field – he’d taken pains to avoid being seen with them as a group, as he didn’t want to arouse any interest.
An offer of a few bills to the largest farm had yielded a cot in a rustic room adjacent to the barn, which was more than fine after the previous night in the jungle. Tomorrow he’d be going deeper into hostile territory and would be sleeping on a bedroll, so Jiao stretched and savored the relative luxury of four walls and running water nearby.
Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2) Page 19
