by Ed Kovacs
A blanket padded the floor of the compartment, providing the only accommodation in what was essentially a steel box. Normally, as soon as the panel closed, Wilder would have broken into a flop sweat and choked for breath, but he'd prepared this time, having popped a five-milligram Valium, which sold over-the-counter in some pharmacies in Thailand for seventy cents U.S. And that came after a martini with Tasnee.
He and Diana sat scrunched in tight like the Marunouchi Line at Tokyo’s rush hour, knees bent, facing each other, packs between them. The engine whine, whirring transmission and roar of the big tires on pavement put the decibel level peaking near temporary hearing impairment.
He turned on a mini-flashlight and for the first time ever gave Diana the 5000 watt smile. “First class all the way when you travel with me,” he kidded loudly, but in the cacophony it rang barely audible.
“A bad ride beats walking every time,” she practically yelled. “Mind if I stretch out?”
“Go ahead. Your shoes are new. Your feet can’t smell that bad, yet,” he joked.
They used their packs as pillows. With no way to stretch out on their backs without literally being on top of each other, they settled onto their sides, backside-to-backside, heads at opposite ends of the compartment, noses practically touching metal. Within minutes, Wilder fell into a deep slumber, having purposely left the flashlight on, not rousing for the checkpoints or tight turns, sudden stops or teeth clattering bumps.
Diana didn’t fare as well, drifting in and out, always waking with the bigger jolts. She snapped awake feeling a warmth in her loins. Confused, she saw that they had shifted in their sleep, and instead of being butt-to-butt they were crotch-to-crotch, his left arm draped around her calves. It was too loud in the compartment to tell if he was snoring, but the faint light showed a man who was out cold. And in his sleep he had an erection which pressed plaintively against her. She felt his sexual energy spreading over her. She allowed it to flow into her, a smoldering pleasure fire. She wondered if he dreamed of Tasnee? It didn’t matter. She could shift away easily enough, or push him aside; he wouldn’t wake up.
But she didn’t move, she simply lay there. And when he shifted in his sleep again in a way that angled his manhood more firmly upon her, she didn’t try to pull away. Within moments, her breath shortened and an spellbinding explosion of warmth and pleasure raked over her raggedly, shockingly unexpected. What in the hell was that?!
She knew of Tantric masters, sexual yogis who claimed to be able to send sex energy remotely and cause an unwitting “target” to suddenly climax, but Wilder was fast asleep! And nothing in his file suggested he was some kind of master sex teacher. She considered that maybe he had been dreaming of her, not Tasnee, but still... questions, only questions.
Soon she felt him recede, but she lingered, awash with yang energy, and wondered why, just when she was getting her life together, did she find herself plunging headlong into a chasm of violence and confrontation. Do I really have to do this to prove my worth? What can I prove by taking on Simon Forte... that I know how to die? Who am I kidding? Instead of finding herself awash in afterglow, she lay drowning in doubt.
CHAPTER 17
At first light the logging truck lurched to a stop beside a ramshackle hunter’s lean-to near a small pond. The soft predawn glow showed jagged spears of wooded karst massifs stabbing at the sky all around them. Cool moist air met Sky Wilder and Diana Hunt as they clambered stiffly out of the idling truck cab with their loads. The apparition of Dang appeared at the edge of the jungle.
“Khun Dang, good morning, sir.”
“Yes yes, Mister Sky, everything ready,” squinted Dang, as he watched the smuggling truck lumber off around a bend.
Diana stretched her limbs lazily as she drank in the surroundings. “It’s beautiful here. And not too hot.”
“The heat will come soon, I’m sorry to say.”
“Please, quick to move off road!” said Dang, gesturing.
Wilder and Diana joined Dang and dissolved into a feathery clump of rolling green that seemed to go on forever. Ping waited with the mules in a clearing not far from the road. Swigs of water from a canteen and a couple of energy bars comprised a two-minute breakfast, followed by a good dousing of one hundred percent DEET on all exposed flesh and exterior clothing, especially boots and lower trouser legs to discourage leeches, which can be picked up without stepping in water.
“Mules already loaded very heavy, please carry own pack.”
“No problem, Ping.”
“What about the weapons?” inquired Diana.
Dang squinted narrowly, avoiding eye contact as he handed her first an M-4 carbine, then a 9mm Beretta tucked into an olive drab nylon holster. Dang and Ping both slung M-4s with thirty-round magazines.
“Your shotgun, Mister Sky.”
“Thanks,” said Wilder, taking a twelve gauge combat shotgun from Ping, an effective weapon for close-in jungle fighting. He looped the breakdown’s sling over his shoulder so it hung at his side.
“Any chance meeting on a narrow jungle trail, and there’s no hiding the fact that we’re Caucasians,” she said.
“Then let’s hope our cover stories will carry us through.”
They had three sets of cover stories memorized, depending on who they might run into. “So now it begins,” Sky said, drinking in the surroundings as if to memorize the moment. “Okay, let’s move out.”
They silently moved deeper into the dusky miasma, Dang in the lead with two flea-bitten loaded-down mules, followed by Ping with his two, then Diana, with Wilder on their six o’clock, bringing up the rear. An uneventful hour passed, damp soil soft beneath their feet, a blur of dull green and browns with flashes of muted color under triple thick canopy, the fecund fragrance of rot, decomposition and fresh growth teasing their nostrils.
As the sun rose so did the heat and humidity and their clothes stuck suctioned to them. Sunbeams filtering through the overhang invigorated the ferns, wild banana leaves and spike-like palm frond rosettes to more vibrant hues. Monkeys chattered in the trees, unseen but vocal Blue-throated Barbets called incessantly, insects buzzed, and pairs of Green-tailed Sunbirds darted about a splash of blooming red rhododendron.
The jungle had come to life with a vengeance, and Ping swatted the mule ahead of him with a rod of cut bamboo to move it forward faster, temporarily disturbing a small swarm of female horseflies busily sucking the animal’s blood.
They left the valley, ascending toward a narrow ravine as the trail abutted a mountain stream trickling weakly with the dry season near its end. They crisscrossed the stream ten times over the next two kilometers, natural rock steps or fallen logs enabling them to keep their boots dry, except from their own foot sweat.
They trundled over rounded water-polished creek stones as the gloomy rock cliffs pressed in from both sides, sphinctering the gorge to a narrow pass. Then Diana whistled sharply, stopping everyone in their tracks.
“That’s a good place for an ambush, up ahead,” she said just loud enough for Dang to hear as she motioned the men forward. She unsnapped her nylon holster cover as they formed up in a group. “Stay alert.”
They craned their necks, sweeping the rock face and listening for telltale sounds. Gibbons cackled in the distance; a trio of Fork-tailed Swifts performed acrobatics off the cliffs. All seemed normal, but Dang and Ping swiveled their slings so the assault rifles hung at port arms, and Wilder chambered a shell, the unmistakable click-clack of a cartridge chambering into a shotgun breech was in and of itself a psychological deterrent to an unseen enemy; he readied the scattergun.
She unslung her M-4 and eased off the safety. “Send the mules first,” she ordered softly.
The lead burro brayed in protest when Dang caned it, but slugged forward, followed by the other three. The mules would walk point. Not that she was using the animals as animate minesweepers; it was highly unlikely a stream bed would be mined. It was the Burmese who had used living creatures, i.e. humans, as walking m
ine detectors. When the tatmadaw torched villages and gang-pressed peasants, it wasn’t always to use them as porters. The cold logic being, why waste bullets killing villagers when you can walk them into rebel minefields ahead of the troops?
Diana waited three minutes after the mules disappeared around a tight bend, then quietly said, “Ten meters apart at all times.”
Sweat rivulets coursing down her arms, she moved forward, crouching. The men followed in order. She’d only covered fifty meters of steepening stream bed when a brace of carrion birds took flight from around the next bend. Had the mules disturbed them, or had something else? Flanking out along the gorge wall, she rounded the curve and saw the bodies, two adults, maybe twenty meters away. She motioned the men forward and they all got a look.
“Dang and I will go have a look,” spoke Wilder, softly.
“You’re the key man here, and we don’t have any insurance on you. I’ll go.”
“You’re a better shot than me, so please cover me.” He was actually an excellent shot, but felt it his place to go forward.
He and Dang moved in slowly and carefully. The reek was overwhelming but they had to get in close. The bodies were not too badly bloated or discolored yet, but the heat would ensure that happened soon. Pieces of flesh had been pecked away by the cloying birds, and the thin ravine choked with tepid mist from the meandering stream and the retched stink of death.
“The feet are intact, so we’re not talking mines.”
“Gunshot to head, both men. Body still fresh, maybe three or four hour. This robbery I think. You see clothes?”
“What do the clothes tell you?” The men wore soiled green longyis instead of pants, cheap rubber sandals and dirty thin cotton shirts.
“I think they Pa-O. Look fingers.” Both men’s fingers were stained black. “They opium addicts. Pa-O live high ground. Slash and burn. Always moving. Same same maybe one hundred year. Maybe more.”
Wilder had seen more than his share of sudden violent death up close and personal. The impact was nothing like what came across on TV or in the movies. These two young men, a few hours ago living, breathing, laughing, loving human beings, had hopes and dreams even though they’d only known poverty and brutally hard work their entire short lives. Now they were free of all that, but Sky doubted it was the kind of freedom many people would voluntarily opt for.
“Why did you say robbery? These two look dirt poor.”
“Pa-O always grow opium. These two maybe try no pay tax. Maybe they try go opium refinery to sell, no use middleman. Thousand maybe reasons,” Dang said squinting.
Wilder picked up spent brass shell casings from the stream bed. “AK-47 rounds.” They both scanned the area up the trail. “Let’s find the mules and get out of this pass.”
The pack mules loitered another thirty meters up the trail munching leaves and tall grass. After regrouping, Dang carefully led them out, the grade so steep at times they climbed on all fours, not nearly as sure-footed as the mules. Leaving the pass, they entered a narrow river valley carpeted with stands of bamboo and palm. Wanting to put distance between themselves and the kill scene, Wilder took point and led them on a forced march through the valley and over two more mist-dappled ridge lines via steep, narrow switchbacks.
At four o’clock they finally broke for food and rest under the shade of wide-leafed banana trees. Since getting out of the truck, they’d walked almost ten hours with very little break time. Ping tethered the mules and posted himself as sentry up the trail. Dang fell out as rear guard fifty or so meters behind them.
Wilder took a GPS reading and consulted a map and satellite photos.
“Give me a hint as to how long we’ll be walking. Two more hours or two more days?” Diana asked, sipping her water.
“If we have to hack through jungle without a trail, then you don’t want to know.” He noted their coordinates on the map. “Like those other totalitarians, the North Koreans, the Russians, and the Chinese, the Burmese didn’t believe in making accurate maps available, afraid their enemies would make good use of them. The enemy being their own people.”
“How nice,” she said facetiously, while tearing open a Thai military field ration. She dug in with a plastic fork, gobbling down something sweet, sour and spicy all at the same time.
He joined her and they ate for a minute in silence. “I had this crazy dream the other night. You were in it.”
She flashed on their strange tete-a-tete in the truck compartment. “A dream back in Mae Hong Son?”
“Come to think of it, no, it was last night in the truck. It only seems like days ago. Anyway, you and I were dancing, all dressed up. Dancing together under the Pyramids.”
“Underground?”
“No, it was, right at the base, or maybe between the Sphinx and Cheops. It kept shifting, you know? I take it as a very good omen.”
“Why?”
“If you ever decide you trust me and explain how you found me in Mae Hong Son, I’ll tell you,” he winked.
“So, was I a good dancer?”
“You were the belle of the ball.”
Diana smiled as she swallowed another gob of Thai goo, then a dark look crossed her face. She dropped the food ration and lunged for her M-4 that was leaning against a tree trunk. She wheeled with the weapon before he could react.
“STOP!” demanded a stern voice in accented English.
Three hardened jungle fighters, none older than fifteen, appeared from nowhere, rifles leveled. AK-47s. They wore baggy pants, loose open shirts, and sandals made from old tires. Their torsos were heavily tattooed with Buddhas and Buddhist scripture because they believed the markings protected them from death in battle. This was also how they passed down their culture. Wilder recognized them as Shans. And though mere boys, they were also hardened men who could spend weeks or months living in the jungle on almost nothing but a belief in their cause. Maybe their cause was independence; maybe it was to be left alone; maybe it was to rob and kill strangers on a lonely jungle trail.
Wilder held his rations and looked to his right where more fighters silently materialized, one of them having a rifle to Ping’s head.
Diana refused to lower her rifle. Dang then came into view, also at gunpoint. Some of the guerrillas carried shoulder-fired RPG-7s, others were criss-crossed with salty-looking bandoliers of forty-millimeter grenades for their Vietnam-era M-79 “bloop guns.” A dozen of them encircled Sky and Diana.
The leader of this rag-tag band of Shan fighters, strode forward. “Put down your gun or we shoot your friends,” he said sternly, with a slightly British accent. The man looked to be about forty-five, which made him ancient to his men. He kept his thick black hair out of his face with a bandanna. And curiously, somehow, he wore eyeglasses. Like the others, he wore a cheap, pale green jade pendant, a point-up triangle around his neck. “I said we will shoot your friends.”
“They’re not my friends. In fact, they don’t like me,” said Diana as she slowly pivoted her muzzle so it pointed at the leader.
“In that case, put your weapon down or we will shoot you.”
“Do that and you and I die together.”
Wilder smiled his 5000 watt grin at the belligerents, carefully dropped his Mylar food pouch to the ground, and slowly raised both hands in surrender as he stood, keeping the smile beaming. “I’m Doctor Pete Emerson from Vancouver, Canada. We don’t want trouble. This is my associate, Mary. She is very stubborn and quite capable of shooting you. But if you kill each other, you miss a much bigger chance to make money. A lot of money.”
“You’re a doctor?” asked the leader, astounded.
“Yes,” said Sky quickly, sensing advantage. “And Mary is a nurse.”
Wilder was about to spin more lies, when the leader spoke to his men in Tai-Yai and they lowered their weapons. “I am Lein Zou. Your guns make my men nervous. They do not trust you, but you will not be hurt unless you attack us. For your own safety, please, surrender your weapons. They will be returned later. Y
ou have my word.”
Wilder didn’t see any choice. If Lein Zou wanted them dead, his men could have simply shot them. So he very slowly grabbed his shotgun by the barrel end and handed it to Zou. “Mary?”
Diana clearly didn’t like it one bit, but she reluctantly lowered the black rifle, and handed it over along with her pistol.
“Please, doctor, miss... you must come with us.”
CHAPTER 18
The sting of the needle entering her skin was a thing of relish to Gretchen Mueller. Cosmetic denervation, injecting Botox into the facial muscles that create dynamic wrinkle lines, had helped take fifteen years off of her appearance. Of course, collagen treatments were only a small part of the regimen she relentlessly pursued. She looked ravishing for her age, but her money-is-no-object effort to preserve the semblance of youth ultimately stood as a mere holding action doomed to fall to Father Time.
Separated from a husband whose family name she despised, she could easily date men younger than her son, even if she weren’t filthy rich. Her current beau, through necessity, was only about ten years younger than her, but that would change as soon as the elixir was hers. She believed unquestionably the ancient Egyptian formula would work and desperately wanted to get her hands on it before her next birthday.
Now that Forte, fool that he was, had Sky Wilder as his stalking horse, the tablets were falling into place. Forte, who fancied himself as some kind of dark adept, was a novice as far as Gretchen was concerned, a relative newcomer who didn’t know what he didn’t know. After all, she’d been born into a family of pagans and had quested for the Book of Spells her entire adult life. Finally, with all the pieces falling into place, her countdown stood at a matter of days.
As another needle stung her, Gretchen couldn't help but smile.
###
Twenty-eight families populated the poor hillside village overlooking a lush valley ringed by rugged karst formations. The hamlet had no name, no roads connecting it to anywhere else, not even a creek running through it. Every morning the women and girls hauled water in bamboo jugs from a small stream about thirty meters below the thatched huts, all built on stilts. Patches of cultivation blanketed some of the rolling hillside; fields of opium dreams spread out colorless, since the poppies had been harvested in the fall.
