Slash and Burn dsp-8

by Colin Cotterill

  It was merely gossip but the reappearance of the enemy on Long Cheng soil gave credence to such a rumor, and before Ugly’s second lap of the compound, some two-thirds of the villagers had disappeared, leaving their parts behind. The task at hand now seemed far more achievable. When Peach passed this news on to Major Potter, he came in search of Siri with his arms outstretched. Only Ugly’s attempt to bite off the major’s right hand prevented Siri becoming another hug victim. But Potter and all on the American team gave him a peculiar collection of nops in thanks for making their work easier. Still, they worked through till five thirty, interviewing claimants, inspecting the souvenirs they’d brought along, attempting to pinpoint locations on a map. Yet, by the time they clambered back into the helicopters, there was a prevailing feeling that the day had produced nothing of any value. Four days to go.

  It wasn’t until they were in the helicopters that Judge Haeng recognized Auntie Bpoo. He was beyond shock. She was another thorn in his hoof.

  “What in Lenin’s name are you doing here, man?” he asked, shouting above the whirr of the rotor.

  “I’m very well thank you, Judge, and you?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “So you did, and very rudely too. Let’s start again with manners, shall we?”

  “Show me some respect. You know who I am and what I am capable of. In fact, I’m going to have you arrested. Put in prison.”

  “On what charge, my little magistrate?”

  “Trespass. Illegal encroachment on a government project.”

  “Ah, but I have a booking.”

  “A what?”

  “A reservation, at the Friendship Hotel. I always sojourn in the north. I was enjoying my holiday when the nice red major invited me to join him up here. How could I refuse?”

  “I do not believe this is a coincidence. How did you get here?”

  “On the bus.”

  “Show me your laissez-passer.”

  “It’s in my room. But of course you knew that, you cunning devil. Any excuse to get into a girl’s bedroom.”

  “How dare you? Listen, you are a freak. There’s no place for your type in the new republic.”

  “Oh, I see. So there is a place for Vannasack Symeaungxay, Thidavanh Bounxouay, and Doungleudy Phoudindong but not for Auntie Bpoo?”

  Haeng leaned backwards and the colour fell from his face.

  “How…?” he began.

  “I know that those are the names of the young ladies you have established in rooms around Vientiane. In December there’ll be another, Latsamy Thongoulay, but you haven’t met her yet. Even so, I believe the ministry would be interested to hear all about them.”

  Haeng lowered his voice.

  “This … this is blackmail.”

  “Not yet. I haven’t quite decided what I want from you. When I do, then it’ll be blackmail.”

  They were leaning close to be heard in the noisy helicopter. Before Haeng could react, Bpoo kissed him on the cheek. He fell away from her and moved to another place wiping the lipstick from his face and cursing. One disastrous trip, two hoof thorns. No respect. People had no respect. But he had his plan. Before the mission was over they’d envy him, admire him for what he was about to do. Yes, respect. From each and every one of them.

  Back in Phonsavan, most of the Lao bathed from scoop jars in the communal bathrooms. The Americans opted to wait until the generator was switched on at sundown when the pumps would deliver water to the ensuite bathrooms. Only Judge Haeng in the Lao wing shared their patience. Dinner that evening was at seven; a fusion of Lao and Western cuisine as interpreted by Hmong kitchen staff working for a Hmong manager and his wife.

  The Hmong was a divided people. Those who had lost the toss and sided with the Americans were now fleeing through refugee camps or making a last futile stand in the mountains. Those who had supported the communists lived a life not terribly different to how it had always been. Many were dragged down from their mountain homes to till fields and work in towns. Some succumbed to diseases they’d not known at higher elevations. Others, like Mr. Toua the Friendship manager, put their knowledge and industrious nature to more commercial ventures. He believed this joint US/Lao mission was just the start of a tourist influx that would turn Phonsavan into the Luang Prabang of the northeast. So all this effort would be worth it.

  There were no longer two islands of tables in the dining room. They were now dotted around the room like in a regular restaurant. And, after a day in the field together, an American journalist might find himself sitting with a Lao soldier, a Lao policeman and his wife with a black sergeant, a Japanese-American forensic pathologist with a transvestite of unknown origin, a Lao general and an American major with a young interpreter.

  “Tell him I was in Nam, honey,” said Potter. He’d somehow managed to get himself a happy whiskey glow even before supper and Peach leaned back to avoid his breath. She passed on the news to General Suvan.

  “Six years, six goddamn years I was there,” he continued. “You tell him.”

  She told him. There were no thoughts or reactions coming in the other direction. It was all Potter.

  “They were all-and excuse my bluntness-chinks and dinks and zips and gooks to us.”

  “I might have trouble transl-”

  “Just do your best, honey. I know you’re trying. But the point is this. We only knew ’em by pejorative terms ’cause that’s what the Pentagon told us they were; ruthless, uneducated nameless heathens. That’s how they ran their wars. There wasn’t a Ngoo Yen or a Fat Dook, not a husband or a father or an ex-schoolteacher. Just a bunch of gooks. That’s why we underestimated them. How can you fight people you don’t understand? How can you kill people you don’t love? That was my point. There has to be a passionate reason to kill a man. You know what I mean? None of us had that passion. Hey, honey. I’m way ahead of you here. You wanna catch the general up on some of this?”

  Peach wasn’t sure how to go about translating Potter’s point, nor was she certain the general was listening. There was beer on the table and he’d guzzled his first glass with more gusto than she’d noticed from him all trip. The Americans had brought in a dozen crates of Bud on their chopper. It was chilled, having spent the day in the cool water trough out back. With beer being so hard to come by, it was a treat, a honeymoon to consummate this morning’s first date. The Americans had the art of seduction down to a fine point.

  “This is what we should have been doing all along,” Potter said, spearing a frankfurter. “Engaging. You’re all nice guys deep down, and you know what I like? You don’t gloat. We gloat. You don’t gloat. You know what the Vietcong did after they kicked our ass out? They sent a bill for damages of fifty billion bucks. They wrote it on a restaurant invoice sheet and addressed it to Kissinger. You gotta admire that. Ha! A goddamn bill. I bet the general’s got a heap of questions he’s been dying to ask an American soldier. Am I right?”

  Peach asked. The general smiled, spoke briefly and took another slurp of beer.

  “The general can’t think of anything just now,” she told him.

  “I bet he can’t. I bet he can’t. These are emotional times. I relate to that. It took me some while to come to grips with my emotions too. To find and exorcize my demons. All that unnecessary slaughter. The destruction. I said to myself one day, “Hey, these are people we’re strafing here. There’s gotta be a better way.” And this is it, honey. This is that way. Beers across the table. Loving thine enemy. I’m so proud to be here. Cheers.” He lifted his glass and the general tapped it with his own. “Yes, sir. You got it. You certain he doesn’t have any questions?”

  Peach didn’t bother to ask nor did she comment. She knew that Potter wasn’t exorcizing his demons. He was drowning them one by one. And now they were holding onto his ankles and dragging him down with them. She couldn’t let this go on. He was unsuitable for his role. People like Potter had to be removed. She could make sure of that.

  Siri, Daeng and Civilai did
n’t have an American. They felt a bit left out. At the next table were two of them huddled together. The second secretary from the Bangkok embassy, Mack Gordon was late thirties and overweight with an outdoor look like a hairy dog on the back of a pickup truck licking at the wind. His smile spread from ear to ear and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. Talking to him was Randal Rhyme from Time magazine. Siri and Civilai knew Woody Allen from his films, of course, and were certain Rhyme was his brother; Woody being the taller, tougher-looking older brother with more hair.

  “It’s racism,” said Civilai. He attempted to crush one of the cans but the Budweiser corporation obviously re inforced them before sending them off to remote areas. He was able to dimple it quite fearsomely, however.

  “They’ve probably heard about you two,” Daeng said. “Who’s going to volunteer to come to this table to be victimized?”

  “We’d be very pleasant, wouldn’t we, Siri?” Civilai protested.

  “Why does everyone else get one and not us? They’ve obviously had orders to mingle, to make us all feel like family. It’s all been orchestrated to lull us into a mood of love and peace. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve put something in the beer.”

  “Hmm. This is a Civilai conspiracy theory I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing before,” Daeng laughed. “While the Russians and Chinese and Vietnamese are attempting to conquer us with money and consumer goods, the Americans sneak in under the radar and win us over with love and tourism.”

  “They’ve tried everything else,” Civilai reminded her.

  “So, if that’s true, why aren’t they here wooing us?” Daeng asked.

  “Exactly. They’re damned clever. They know that I know their plot so they’re holding back. It’s a double … something or other. I’ve a good mind to go over there and crash their meeting and show them some assault hospitality of my own.”

  Siri laughed. “If I didn’t know you better … and I obviously don’t, I’d say you were just miffed ’cause we haven’t got an American to play with. You’re jealous.”

  “And I bet you half a dozen cans of free beer that you don’t dare go over there,” Daeng added.

  “You won’t find the word ‘dareless’ in the Civilai dictionary, madam.”

  He rose majestically, grabbed three unopened cans of beer from the metal tray table beside him and marched to the neighboring table. Without missing a beat, Secretary Gordon pulled out a chair for their invader and they all shook hands.

  “He seems to have done it,” said Siri.

  “And they’ve apparently found a common language somewhere between them,” Daeng noticed. “They’re laughing.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t catch me selling out to the other side,” said Siri.

  “Me neither.”

  “There isn’t enough water in the Mekhong that would make me talk to one of them.”

  “I’d sooner run head first into a bramble bush.”

  “I’d pull you out.”

  “Thank you.” She looked around as she sipped her beer. “Tell me, the farang with the shiny head and glasses, he’s a journalist, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Well, don’t look over your shoulder now but he’s coming this way.”

  “Fight him off, Daeng.”

  “It’s too late.”

  Rhyme from Time stood over them-only a little over them-and produced an irresistible smile. His blue eyes were magnified to double their size by his thick lenses.

  “Wow!” he said, and then, in fluent French, “Madame Daeng and Dr. Siri Paiboun in the flesh. This is very exciting for me. A great honor I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to meeting you two.”

  Siri leaned across and pulled out a chair.

  9

  THE DRAGON’S TAIL

  Day two of the mission began very much as had day one. The choppers landed at the site, the teams carried their equipment to Vang Pao’s house and set up the folding tables. Upon the arrival of Saint Siri, Ugly wagged his stub of a tail so frantically he threw himself sideways. Siri had saved him some breakfast so the relationship was cemented. The food, the newspaper it was wrapped in and a few mouthfuls of dirt were gone in ten seconds.

  Whether the queues had remained in place overnight was hard to say but there appeared to be no changes in the lineup on the second day. The teams split into their groups and began to investigate the claims. An impressive array of objects was collected: tin ration trays, bootlaces, a complete arsenal of Zippo lighters, and, remarkably, a Charley Weaver mechanical bar tender without batteries. Where it actually came from nobody knew, although its owners claimed a pilot had given it to them as he was escaping a burning helicopter. You had to admire them for trying.

  An hour had passed and still nobody had found a verifiable link to Captain Bowry. That was until the arrival of a group of old men and young boys dressed in black with spare sarongs worn as turbans. They had fashioned some sort of litter out of bamboo. On it, tied down with rope, was the tailplane of a helicopter with its directional rotors still attached. They carried it solemnly, like pallbearers, lowered it respectfully onto the ground in front of Vang Pao’s house, and stood back.

  “My word,” said Siri. He left his table, abandoning a group of Hmong women who were trying to sell him a gold tooth. He stood beside the litter and was soon joined by all the other team members. Someone let out a low whistle. The tailplane had apparently been torn from the helicopter by an explosion. The metal at its base was jagged and black. The rest was dark green and had no military insignias but the figures H32 in white were clearly visible.

  “That’s it,” said Dtui. “That’s the one in the photographs. H32.”

  Major Potter had shown them the embassy pictures on the first day and now he was holding up the tailplane photo to compare with this new arrival. His excitement confirmed it was a match. He didn’t know who to hug first. He barked something to Peach who, in turn, asked the pallbearers in Lao where they’d found this wreckage. They smiled and nodded, but nobody answered. They attempted the same question in Hmong, Kang and Lu before Phosy finally hit the jackpot with his Phuan. The Phuan had once had their own kingdom in the region. But as hostility and violence weren’t their strong points they were eventually decimated by the warlords around them, finally to be forced into slavery by the Siamese. According to the ethnicity poll of 1977, there were barely ten thousand left in Laos. But this had to be a very isolated group if they had no other major languages between them. Phosy led the group to a chicken’s earrings tree, arranged for water, and as they drank they recalled their two-week journey with the dragon’s tail. The inspector showed them a map and although the group had no concept of how a vast wilderness could be shrunk and flattened onto a square of paper, they were able to guide Phosy’s finger via the setting and rising suns and the mountains and valleys and rivers, to their home.

  After twenty minutes, Phosy joined the others. All interest had turned to the new arrivals. Phosy showed them a spot on the map, Ban Hoong to the east, where the group had apparently begun their journey. It was a mere forty-minute helicopter trip from where they now stood.

  “They’re closer to Phonsavan than to here,” Dtui remarked.

  “Their sorceress told them to come,” Phosy translated. “Said she’d seen a sign in a dream.”

  “I take it there isn’t the slightest possibility she caught the government announcement on the radio?” Civilai asked.

  “I doubt it,” said Phosy. “She’s been dead for seven years. It was her final request that they deliver the dragon’s tail to the wealthy overlords at Spook City.”

  Peach was translating for the Americans.

  “I guess that would be us,” said the major. “Did they tell you anything about how the dragon’s tail came into their possession?”

  Phosy continued the story.

  “There was an explosion one night and they woke up the next day to find this thing had fallen through the roof of their meeting hut. The s
orceress told them that she’d been sitting in a tree-I get the feeling she wasn’t really in control of her senses-and she saw a dragon collide with the moon. The moon broke into a million pieces. They couldn’t convince her otherwise because she’d gone blind that night. Given the evidence, the head man in the group’s more inclined to believe it was a helicopter.”

  “Was this the only part of the chopper they found?” Lit asked.

  “Apparently.”

  “How come only their sorceress saw the explosion?”

  “There was always a lot of air activity in the region: bombings, anti-aircraft fire, crashes, the dumping of undelivered ordnance. They’d been visited and threatened by both sides during the war. All their young men had been forcibly recruited to fight. They were afraid. They weren’t about to go rushing out in the middle of the night to investigate an explosion. Just pulled the blanket up and hoped it would all go away.”

  When word of this made it around the Americans, Sergeant John Johnson stepped forward.

  “Did anybody hear anything before the explosion?” he asked.

  “One woman seemed quite animated about the topic. She was awake that night,” Phosy said. “She was afraid of the helicopters and this one had circled overhead a number of times. She was sure he was looking for their village. Then, she says, the aircraft just went quiet, as if it was hiding in the silence of the sky. Then there was the bang.”

  Johnson asked how long the gap was between the engine cutting out and the explosion.

  “She says about ten breaths,” Phosy told him. “Does that mean something?”