The Balkan Assignment

by Joe Poyer

  Within an hour we were into the Bay of Bengal, crossing the off-shore islands that stretch from the mouth of the

  Ganges southwest to the Damodar River delta. The rain had turned out to be part of a major storm system moving in from the Indian Ocean and reaching clear to the Burmese coast. The weather reports were calling for periodic rain squalls and cloud cover from two thousand to fifteen thousand feet. They also reported clearing skies over mid-and northern Burma. I relayed this information to Klaus and he frowned.

  "That is bad. It will make finding our landing field in Burma that much harder."

  "Burma, heh? Some big secret. Why wouldn't you tell me that we were headed for Burma?"

  "Because we are not landing at a normal entry port ..."

  "Wait a minute," I said. "You're not thinking of trying to sneak into Burma are you?

  They don't take kindly to that sort of thing. Even commercial airliners have to file flight plans twenty-four hours in advance and stick strictly to controlled airways.

  Klaus extracted a folded air route map from his jacket pocket; a U. S. Military FLIP may for Southeast Asia, covering the Indo-China Peninsula. He unfolded and handed it to me.

  The route was marked out in red; a long sweeping curve from Calcutta to avoid problems with East Pakistan's air defense, a turn northeast and a straight run in once we reached the coast. Then a long flight over the Arakan Yoma Range that formed the backbone of the country, across the Irrawaddy River and into Burmese highlands to a red circle marking an airfield deep in the interior. The site was forty miles north of Lashio . . . and it dawned on me. Lashio was an oil town. I turned to Klaus:

  "Another oil-drilling camp?"

  Klaus chuckled and reached over the map. "Not a camp exactly. Mong Mei is a small village. Our company was asked by the Burmese to reactivate the old British-Indo-Chinese Oil Company lease fields under charter two years ago. This field had lain unused since the withdrawal of the Japanese after the last war. When the British retreated from Burma in 1942, they destroyed most of the equipment and all of the drilling machinery.

  The Japanese managed to bring it to operational status again by mid-1945, but they surrendered in August of that same year as you will recall. Just before the surrender was announced,

  the Japanese commander ordered the field to be destroyed a second time. What they did not destroy, Communist guerrillas finished in 1947 and 1948. Since then, the field has lain unworked. When the Burmese Government decided to reopen the field, they called on my company. We are now nearing full production."

  "Lashio," I murmured. "Seems like I have heard of Lashio before."

  "That is very possible," Klaus replied. "Lashio was the terminus of the Ledo Road used by the Allies to supply China until it was captured by the Japanese. During the insurgency troubles it was used in reverse by the Chinese to supply Communist guerrillas in Burma and Northern Malaya."

  I remembered then. My father had flown the Hump .. . the air route between India and Kunming, the Chinese end of the Burma Road during World War II. Lashio was the town in northern Burma where the railroad ended and the truck road began. After the Japanese captured Burma, the Allies took to the air to supply China with arms and food.

  Klaus handed the map back. It looked simple enough; a straight flight in over the coast; cross the western mountain range and turn north up the Irrawaddy River Valley as far as Mandalay, then turn northeast some eighty miles or so to a small airfield scratched out of the folded hills at three thousand feet.

  And it was. We were not questioned once, either by radio or by fighter interceptors.

  Klaus's outfit had obviously done this sort of thing before. Either all of the proper flight plans were on file or else certain air traffic controllers were in their pay. From previous experience, I suspected the latter as being the most likely possibility. -

  We had managed to stay ahead of the storm after crossing the Burmese coast. All through the late afternoon as we flew up the Irrawaddy valley, the skies had remained a deep winter-blue, but as the ground began to rise, masses of thunderheads began to coalesce in true monsoon fashion until by sunset, the cloud cover was solid. Just at sunset we began to cross the highlands of the Shan plateau. An occasional cluster of lights marked the progress of Burma's electrification program through the villages, and when the milky cluster of Lashio came into view I altered course northeast for Mong Mei.

  Darkness was complete when I spotted the lights indicating the location of Mong Mei and the Burma Oil Company. I called Klaus into the cockpit and he watched the lights grow larger with evident satisfaction. Just before I began the landing approach he laughed softly.

  "It is certainly a hell of a long way from that damnable Yugoslavian island."

  I agreed, fervently!

  The airstrip of the Burma Oil Company wasn't much better than the packed sand of the Egyptian camp or the abandoned airstrip at Sibi. I made two passes down the runway as it seemed suspiciously short. It was; less than three thousand feet long. The landing was rough, again made between two lines of flaming oil barrels. As soon as I felt the wheels touch down I reversed both engines and we rocked and shuddered over the wet grass to a halt.

  "The Government has agreed to lengthen the airstrip before summer," Klaus apologized shakily after we were down. The relief in his voice was so plain as to be almost ludicrous

  . . . and it came from more than the rough landing. Obviously, we had reached the end of the line. And, the picture was beginning to fill in for me. The gold, recovered from caches throughout Europe, was flown here to the Burma Oil Company holdings, probably a subsidiary of some German organization. It was stored here . . . midway between the India/Hong Kong markets. Wherever the price was right at the moment, that'

  s where the gold went to be converted to hard currency; American dollars, West German marks, Swiss francs and so on. Here in Northern Burma, Klaus's organization, using the oil camp as a front, would be as free from detection as it was possible to be anywhere in the world today, and they were only hours from the black markets that paid the highest price for bootleg gold, no questions asked. The legitimate business of the drilling site was ample excuse to run regular and not-so-regular flights in and out for supplies, equipment and men. Very nice, I thought to myself. I was willing to bet that a large percentage of the recovered gold wound up in Red China, and since the camp was located less than forty miles below the Chinese-Burmese border, they had a perfect escape route north if necessary, and I did not look for Klaus to have passed up so obvious an arrangement.

  Klaus left the cockpit as soon as I brought the DC-3

  to a halt. I heard him open the cargo door and shout happily 'to someone. I pulled out a cigarette and settled back, relishing the idea of not having to fly again for the next few days. And surely, somewhere around here, I could find a place to shower and shave.

  I slid the wing window open and let the surprisingly mild air of the Burmese night pour in. I had half expected the air to be hot and humid until I remembered that we were on the Shan plateau, a good three thousand feet above sea level, and even though this was the middle of the rainy season, the temperature and the humidity would be bearable.

  Staring into the soft night, I could see a waste stack burning natural gas on the far side of the camp. In its pale light, several skeletal pumping rigs were visible over the tops of the trees. Spaced along the runway were two one-story, slope-roofed buildings common to Indo-China, called "go-downs", obviously meant to serve as storage sheds and hangars.

  After a few minutes, Klaus came back into the cockpit and asked me to come with him.

  As we left the aircraft, I saw the two guards leading Mikhail toward the nearer of the go-downs. Outside, waiting for us was another man who had come from the camp in a pickup truck. As we approached, he straightened up and stuck out his hand for me to shake.

  "Chris, I would like you to meet Peter Steinmetz, our camp superintendent," Klaus introduced me happily.

  Steinmetz was t
he hulking man possessed of tremendous physical strength, to which his grip attested. And he probably needed it. Looking past his shoulder I could see two roughnecks or drillers. One was a tall, thin Lascar with a knife scar running from his left temple, down under his chin, across his throat and halfway up his right cheek. Two fingers on his left hand were missing and he walked with a decided limp. The other man was a bit shorter and Caucasian; but no less mean looking. Both stood watchfully behind Steinmetz; both wore pistols. I glanced at Klaus, but he avoided my glance and motioned to the two men.

  "Chris, go with them. They will take you to your quarters and you can shower, eat and get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning."

  Alarm bells went off all over, and a curious sensation

  traveled down my spine. "Oh no you won't, old buddy," I said softly. "You will talk with me and go along with me to wherever these two apes want to' go."

  I took his arm right at the elbow, squeezed hard and pulled him along at the same time.

  After a moment's hesitation, he fell into step, a grimace of surprise and pain on his face.

  The Lascar looked for an instant as if he might step forward and knock my hand away. I cocked my free fist to let him have it in his bony throat. Klaus saw the movement in time and motioned him to stay away. I glared and without another word, Steinmetz and his bully boys turned and led us to the pickup.

  I had no intention of letting Klaus out of my sight until I found out exactly what the devil was going on and how I fitted into the picture. There was no way that Ley could help me now, not until I could locate a radio. And it hid to be found quickly before Klaus decided he could dispense with my services altogether. I had stopped believing that there was even a grain of truth in any of his fairy tales the morning he told me that Pete had been killed.

  Klaus and I climbed into the rear of the pickup with the Lascar and Steinmetz and the other guard got into the cab and drove off through the darkened camp. In the winter darkness a handful of bare bulbs dangled from old-fashioned overhead street lamps to light the intersections. I tried to memorize the way, but in the dark and the maze of tracks and equipment, it was impossible.

  During the five minute drive, I received the jumbled impression of oil pumps, derricks in various stages of assembly, huge oil storage tanks, and muddy streets. With the sky clouding over quickly, the moon, just clearing the eastern horizon, was blotted out in the space of a few seconds and the stars disappeared as if snuffed. The Lascar glanced up and muttered something to Klaus in a heavy German accent. His meaning was clear enough. This was the monsoon season and anyone who dawdled in the face of the evidence presented by the sky deserved to get wet.

  A few minutes later, we turned off what passed for the main street and stopped. Klaus and the Lascar hopped down and I followed them through a small gate and up a path to a neat little bungalow set well back from the road. The light went on in the main room as the Lascar entered. I judged that we had come only half a mile from the airfield, but I doubted if I could have made my way in the dark if my life depended on it . . . which it just might.

  The interior of the bungalow was a complete surprise. The old furniture was neatly arranged around the room. An old-fashioned radio with a wood cabinet stood in one corner. I hadn't seen one of those things since my parents had traded theirs in on a television set in the late 1940s. The rug was worn in spots and the walls were stained by years of neglect. But someone had taken some pains to clean up and restore the place. A fire burning briskly in the fireplace enhanced its comfortable feeling.

  Klaus stopped in the center of the room and motioned the Lascar out. He left without hesitation.

  "All right, Chris, what is this all about?"

  I dropped down wearily onto the overstuffed brown sofa and sighed. "Look, friend, you drag me to Yugoslavia, involve me in a murder and an attack on a government ship on the high seas, then pull me halfway round the world . . . and you want to know why I'm jumpy. Those bravos out there are a couple of the toughest looking characters I have ever seen. Either one would slit my throat for fifty cents and not think twice about it. Then you want me to go off on a nice long walk at night with them. No thanks."

  Klaus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I see." He was quiet again for a moment as if wondering what to say next.

  "Chris, have I ever given you reason to doubt me . . . ?"

  I groaned. "Yes, Klaus, you have. I don't trust you any farther than I could throw all two thousand pounds of that gold."

  Klaus looked pained, and genuinely hurt. But I was no longer buying.

  "Chris, if you don't trust me then I cannot afford to have . .."

  "Damn it all, Klaus," I said quietly, "knock off that nonsense. I don't trust you, you don't trust me. It's that simple. If we can co-operate in some way advantageous to the other, fine. Let's do so. If not, give me my share • of the gold and let me get the hell out of here.

  "

  Klaus strode angrily to the door. "There is no reason why we cannot co-operate as you so crudely put it. I was serious, completely serious when I asked you to develop a new air-freight line that would be financed by my company. But now, you are tired and are not speaking sensibly. Please sleep and we will talk about it tomorrow evening.

  Until then, you are free to come and go around the camp as you wish. You will not be interfered with. I will need to use the DC-3 tomorrow, but we have one other pilot."

  "In that case, make sure that those two bums don't show their faces around here tonight, or tomorrow either for that matter."

  "They will not interfere with you in any way. Your gear will be delivered shortly. The shower works, but not very well. Good night."

  I nodded at him and watched as he went down the steps and through the little wicket gate. Steinmetz and his friends detached themselves from the shadows and walked with him to the pickup. All four talked for a moment, then climbed into the truck and drove away. Rain began to spatter down in huge swollen drops that quickly hid the truck's taillights. I watched the rain for a moment, wondering where the hell I was going to find a radio, then closed and locked the door. Obviously, the radio was going to have to wait until morning. I had not the slightest idea where I was or in which direction the airfield lay. The rain pounded briefly on the metal roof and settled down to a steady drumming that left me feeling very lonely.

  Morning arrived with the muted rattle of dishes from the living room. Faint traces of light leaked through the bamboo matting that served as a window shade. It was gray sunlight; presaging a sunless morning. A hot bath and a comfortable bed had put me out like a light. The rattling dishes had come from the bungalow's living room where some kindhearted soul had left a covered tray of breakfast. I carted it over to a table near the latticed window and sat down to three eggs, bacon and coffee followed by toast and fresh fruit.

  The morning sky was heavily overcast. Puddles of water were everywhere and the road past the bungalow had been churned into thick brown mud by the morning's traffic.

  Hibiscus and plateau lilies bloomed in profusion amid the thick vegetation that surrounded the bungalow and blotted out the rest of the camp. Above the trees I could see rolling, fir-covered hills to the north where the plateau climbed farther toward the uplands of the Burmese-Chinese border.

  During the night, my gear had been delivered from the airfield and left inside the front door . . . the lock was completely useless it seemed. I changed into fresh slacks, shirt and low boots feeling more rested than I had at any time since Klaus and I had left Italy for Yugoslavia. During breakfast I had decided that the first order of business should be to find a radio transmitter and get Ley and his support into the camp as fast as possible. The way to start was a quick tour of the camp . . . with the airfield as the best bet. After that, it would be a matter of staying out of the way until I could make my move. The other option open to me—and not a very good one—was to head out into the hills and lay low until Ley moved in on his own initiative. Two things were against that. First
, I was fairly certain that Ley would not have risked following the DC-3 all the way to the camp. If Klaus's cohorts in the camp maintained any kind of radar watch—which was likely due to the nature of their business—Ley would have been spotted immediately. Secondly, I did not know the hill territory around the camp; they did. If I disappeared, it would not take them long to track me down. In that event, I doubted if they would waste time and effort in bringing me back.

  There was no one around to watch me it appeared, and I struck out up the road, back the way we had driven the previous evening. The camp did look quite a bit different by day; even a drizzly day such as this. I had found a rain slicker in one of the closets, stuck a couple of pieces of fruit in the pocket and was ready for a day of walking, rain or no rain.

  The muddy road was unevenly lined with similar small bungalows patterned after the style popular in England during the 1920s. Small, boxy houses divided evenly into four rooms; each bungalow squatting well back from the road and surrounded by its own graying picket fence.

  The road continued on through the main part of the installation; a scattering of run-down quonset-type buildings housing administrative offices, directly in back of which were large buildings in which I assumed supplies and equipment were stored. In the gray light of the overcast morning with a fine rain pattering down, the scene was terribly lonely in spite of the occasional worker walking from building to building. The all-pervading sound

  of the oil pumps bumping and clanking away lay over the installation like a pall. Skeletal structures of derricks rose between rickety wooden fences surrounding obscenely bobbing oil pumps coated thickly with oil and dirt. Occasionally a small puddle of oil along the road drew a rainbow of viscous color.

  The empty landing field stretched away in the rainy mist. The DC-3 was gone, as Klaus said it would be .. . south to Rangoon likely since he had expected to be back by evening.