Toe Popper

by Jonny Tangerine

BATTAMBANG PROVINCE, CAMBODIA – 6:55 A.M.

  The surprise visitor turned out to be Special Agent Moses Williamson of the Bangkok Field Office. He was waiting for them by the helicopter, which despite the flimsy U.N. patches, obviously belonged to the Thai Military. As Lieutenant Rahman dealt with their patient, Nuon (they’d finally found out his name), Joel met with the FBI.

  Agent Williamson was the kind of expatriate that carried an impenetrable sphere of American confidence and culture with him wherever he went. He instantly reminded Joel of the Oklahoma running back who had become a U.S. Congressman. If there was a place to watch the NBA pre-season in Myanmar this guy would find it, effortlessly. He crushed Lane's knuckles together and handed him a fax.

  “You’re a hard guy to get a hold of. I hope you can pack quick, we’re taking you back to Bangkok with us. You’re on an eight-thirty United flight to L.A. It’s faster than anything military, but they won’t delay it more than twenty minutes for us.”

  “The power is pretty erratic around here so we only turn on the phone once a day unless we have to call out.” Lane said.

  Agent Williamson looked at him incredulously and pointed to a brickish cell phone attached to his belt. “Iridium, man. You can leave it on for a week and still have twenty hours of talk time anywhere in the world.”

  Major Lane read over the fax. “I guess I don’t usually have that much to say.” The fax was an order signed by a Colonel at the Special Forces Command whom he recognized, but had never met. Major Joel Lane had been reassigned to an FBI task force in Los Angeles, effective immediately.

  “Is this all the information you have for me?” Lane asked.

  Agent Williamson handed him a large manila envelope. “This is the rest of your fax, your boarding pass, and even an aircraft sidearm permit.”

  “What about customs in Bangkok?”

  “Forty says we don’t even have to deal with it.”

  “Who’s Forty?” Lane asked.

  “You don’t know WD? WD-40, Wayne Diamond, our Liaison Officer? I thought everybody knew him. We all call him WD-40 because he knows exactly where to apply the grease over here. He’s got it all wired. You can forget about customs.”

  “I need to take the snake bite case with us, do you have a hospital connection?”

  Williamson visibly winced. “Oh come on, a Cambodian national? That creates a lot of problems.”

  Major Lane searched his brain for just the right motivational phrase. “Agent, that man is a hero, while he was rescuing a baby from a minefield this morning a fucking cobra bit him and he didn’t even flinch. We need him on our team, I can’t lose him now. What are we doing over here if we can’t even extend a little effort to save the heroes?”

  “Alright, shit. We can probably put him in the Seventh Day Adventist Clinic. Just make sure he’s ready to go like now.” Williamson said and began pushing the buttons of his magical phone.

  Major Lane went into his bungalow to pack. The very first thing he thought of was his opium supply. He tried to ignore it. Perhaps, he thought, this was just the opportunity he needed to rid himself of his growing habit. He put it out of his mind, but on his way out the last thing he grabbed was a NATO first aid field kit that he knew contained several hits of synthetic morphine.

  Major Lane sat in the back of the Jet Ranger. Nuon snored softly in the seat beside him, passed-out against the far window. Lieutenant Rahman had shot him up with muscle relaxants to minimize the impact of the anti-venom. Lane opened the large manila envelope and pulled out the second part of his fax.

  The first page was a list of names, his was circled and appeared near the top. Ever since he had trained agents at Fort Benning for the Atlanta games, the FBI had considered him their landmine expert. He flipped to the next page and found a classified incident report. It described, in flat clinical detail, the deaths and ordinance involved at Zuma Beach. It also revealed that the FBI had de-fused three additional M16A2 anti-personnel mines found at the scene. Joel thought they’d been lucky. The M16A2’s were American-made old-school fragmentation mines. They were deadlier than a lot of modern plastic mines, but their metal shrapnel made them much easier to detect. They also weren’t equipped with any devious anti-tamper features, making them fairly simple to disarm. Since the early sixties, millions of them had been produced, exported and re-exported. In the world arms market they were an untraceable commodity. There were also hundreds of thousands of them sitting in domestic stockpiles. The mines didn’t provide many clues about who placed them. But Lane found the map of their deployment interesting, particularly the possibility that someone had used a multi-mine stack. It suggested a professional approach.

  As they entered the greenish-brown haze of Bangkok, Lane turned over the facts of the report in his head. The fragmentation mines couldn’t have cost more than ten dollars each. If someone was committed enough to terrorize a public beach, why hadn’t they used more of them and really made a statement? It didn’t make sense and gave Lane a bad feeling, one that he vaguely recognized. It was the same feeling he got when someone smiled at their first two cards and then passed on the chance to bet. It usually meant that player had already won and was simply trying to suck as many people as possible into a big hand. It was a clear signal to fold, only in this deal, Lane realized he would be playing to the end no matter what cards he held.

  They banked sharply over the International terminal and landed on the tarmac behind a giant blue and grey 747-400. A small orange and white Toyota ambulance was waiting for them. Lane was impressed.

  Williamson’s voice came in strong over the intercom. “This is your flight, buddy. Ten minutes to spare.”

  Lane gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks for the ride. Take good care of my hero.”

  At the top of the aluminum stairs a fifty-year-old flight attendant greeted him without bothering to smile. “Finally, ” she said, and impatiently ripped-off his perforated stub.

  As Major Lane made his way down the cramped aisle of the sold-out plane, he looked down at his boarding pass for the first time. 57-F. WD-40 had lubricated him into a middle seat in deep coach.

  PIER “F” -- LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA -- 2:00 A.M.

  Huay drove the Toyota forklift smoothly through the dark warehouse. The electric motor hummed softly and the pneumatic tires whispered over the glossy concrete. His halogen headlights illuminated row after row of international shipping containers. Near the end of the forty-meter aisle he turned sharply, lighting up the door of the second-to-last container. Huay pulled out the parking brake and stepped down. He removed the industrial-strength Master lock from the handle and slid the bolt back. The heavy steel hinges groaned as the doors were opened, sending spooky echoes up to the invisible rafters. From behind, the brilliant lights of the forklift threw Huay’s shadow deep into the metal container. Inside were two six-foot cubes made up of 216 standard sized boxes strapped onto wooden pallets. Huay thumbed his utility knife and sliced off the nylon straps of the first cube. He lifted aside the first six boxes off the first row to expose the inside stack. He counted down three and slid out a single box.

  The markings on the outside of the box indicated that it contained 35mm disposable cameras that had been manufactured in Singapore. There was also a message that warned that the box should be stored in a very cool and dry place. Huay placed his selection on top of a stack of three and slid his knife across the upper seam. Beneath two layers of thick bubble wrap Huay found the real contents: twenty-four M-12 acoustically-activated blast mines made by Celsius AB, a Swedish firm with subsidiaries located throughout the world.

  Each mine was wrapped in its own clear-plastic sleeve and contained instructions written in six languages, none of them Swedish. Huay removed one for closer inspection. The M-12 was a sophisticated, fiendish weapon. Made almost entirely of plastic, it was virtually undetectable. And once turned on, it only became armed when it was exposed to a sound above 130 decibels – the noise produced by a typical rifle shot. They were designed to lure
an enemy force into a deadly trap. Troops could crossover or occupy an area filled with such mines and not know it until they were attacked. They were marketed specifically for use in insurgent wars where guerilla groups often faced overwhelming occupying forces.

  Huay was familiar with the mines, but reviewed the instructions again anyway, just to be safe. He would be planting them soon. Cemeteries were usually very quiet places, but Huay knew that funeral services for officers killed in the line of duty always included a seven-man honor guard. The first volley of their twenty-one gun salute would be more than enough to activate the surprise guests.

  Huay’s thoughts were interrupted by two loud POPS that sent his pulse sprinting. He looked down, shook his head and took a relieved breath. Huay had accidentally stepped on a corner of the bubble wrap.

  UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 8026

  When Lane got to the back of plane, he found himself in a sea of saffron, smiles and bald heads. Buddhist monks occupied nearly every seat. A very large monastery was taking an all-hands field trip to America. After spending five years in Cambodia, Lane had become familiar with the basic tenets of Buddhism; i.e. he could quote the four noble truths. Looking at his narrow purple and orange seat, Lane was instantly reminded of the first noble truth: Existence is suffering. It was going to be an eighteen-hour flight.

  During the first leg of the journey, five hours up to Osaka, Lane read an article in the complimentary Horizons magazine about the place kicker for the Denver Broncos and another on how to buy chiles in Santa Fe. There was no movie, only a giant video map that displayed their slow progress across the East China Sea and the below-zero temperature outside the plane. There was also no smoking. There was a pleasant announcement of this rule at the beginning of the flight. And, three hours later, after someone set-off a lavatory smoke alarm, a stern prosecutorial warning. Smoking was not a big problem for Lane, yet. He had gotten himself down to only four cigarettes per day, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before it began to bother him.

  Lane began to think about the people up in first class. There was a lot less suffering up there. The world landmine problem was similar. What was considered an intractable and horrific tragedy in Cambodia was merely an expensive public health campaign in Kuwait. After the Gulf War there were two million landmines buried and scattered across nearly every acre of the country. To get rid of them, Kuwait had immediately signed removal contracts worth over seven hundred million dollars. The mercenaries had worked hard and now nearly all the mines were gone. The world had become an economic rather than ideological battlefield. And no one was about to give Cambodia a free upgrade.

  After a forty-five minute stopover in Osaka, where they were allowed to loiter and chain-smoke briefly in a polyester transit lounge, the plane seemed to be even more full. A preview for the first movie was shown. It was something called “D5 – The Mighty Ducks on Thin Ice.” The trailer showed Emilio Estevez and Whoopi Goldberg playing chicken with zamboni’s. Lane wasn’t very familiar with the Ducks’ movies. Like many people in Southeast Asia, he only watched bootlegged videos, a market where winter-themed movies were rare. He decided it would be a good time to break out the opiates and get some sleep.

  He ripped open the velcro on the field kit and checked the pocket that contained the little envelopes of pharmaceutical gems. He didn’t realize how loud his moan was. His seatmate, bald except for the blue headphones, looked over with deep concern, then smiled. Lane was reminded of the second noble truth of Buddhism: All suffering is caused by desire. Some bastard had already pilfered the Dilaudid.

  Major Lane looked at his watch. Eleven and a half-hours to go. The opium monkey began to scratch at the inside of his head, seemingly using all four hands and his tail. Lane took a deep breath. He knew it was, at this point, only psychological anxiety. But he also knew if he was going to come up with a rational solution to this problem it would have to be soon. The NATO kit gave him an idea. International flights were medically very well equipped. Lane knew that some had even begun to carry automated defibrillators for heart attacks. It was time to go for a walk.

  The first aid kit was amazingly easy to find, even with the lights dimmed for the movie. Green and white labels on the outside of the first coach overhead bin (row 46) announced the emergency contents. But there was a problem. The bin was located immediately outside the door of the galley, where flight attendants seemed to congregate and hover. Major Lane had nearly twenty years of Special Forces training, it was obvious what had to be done. He grabbed a USA Today-Asia from the bulkhead rack and headed for the aft bathroom.

  Lane quickly abandoned the first bathroom he entered -- someone had clogged the tiny sink either trying to rinse-out or throw-up a cup-o-noodles. He found his second choice both functional and vacant. Once inside Lane re-opened the velcro on his field kit and removed a surgical glove. From his front pocket he took out a disposable lighter and his last Chinese Marlboro. He knelt down before the toilet and unfolded the “Life & Style” section of the USA Today – Asia and balanced it on his head, forming a small tent. Lane flashed the lighter and moved the cigarette clenched in his teeth into the flame. He filled his lungs with the smoke and simultaneously flushed, drawing the uninhaled smoke down the blue vacuum hole. He kept the handle down on the 200,000 flushes while he inflated the surgical glove with the smoke from his lungs. He took another long draw from the Marlboro and repeated the process, this time also flushing the cigarette. He shrugged off the newspaper, tied off the end of the glove and stood up. He had created a white smoke turkey. He carefully pushed the latex bladder down into the compartment for discarded paper towels and then went back to his field kit. Using strongly-adhesive bandage tape, he taped a straight razor blade to the inside edge of the towel door, taking care to keep the edge of the blade away from the stretched skin of the glove. If his little trap worked correctly, the next person to push the door in would slice open the glove and send a four-lung billow of smoke up to the hair-trigger detector. Lane re-folded his paper and headed for row 46.

  He only had to pretend to stretch his legs near the galley for about three minutes before the medium volume whoop began. Two zealous flight attendants rushed out and down both aisles. Lane opened the emergency overhead bin and slid the bright yellow dictionary-sized first aid kit into his USA Today. No one had noticed -- passengers not turned around watching the flight attendants were staring at the screen, mesmerized by the first zamboni scene.

  Back at his seat, Major Lane had to snap open an FAA seal on the first aid kit that informed him he was breaking a federal law. His seatmate looked over curiously. Lane smiled. Eliminate the cause of suffering and suffering will cease to arise. Lane quickly located the morphine. He dry swallowed two caplets and felt relaxed for the first time since he’d stepped on the plane. He reclined his seat seven centimeters, found his headphones, and dialed-in channel one. Lane looked forward to laughing at the Ducks with the monks.

  FOREST LAWN CEMETERY, HOLLYWOOD – 1:01 A.M.

  Huay’s feet hit the spongy grass on the other side of the fence, and he immediately felt the old familiar tingle. It was good to be back in it, on a covert night operation. He could feel his pulse rate begin to rev-up, cleansing his senses and opening them wide. Huay held his breath and listened for danger. But he heard only the deafening stillness of the dead.

  Huay exhaled and began looking for landmarks. He moved silently, low to the ground. He was out of practice and his lower back ached and the straps of his backpack strained his shoulder blades. He had to stop twice to adjust the position of the .45 caliber Colt Defender under his shirt. Huay wished he had had time to find a sound and flash suppression cylinder for it. Now, due to its loud noise, it was a weapon of last resort.

  Huay passed hundreds of American flags left over from Memorial Day, the white stars reflecting in the few lumens of light that made it into the cemetery from the surrounding boulevards. When he felt the asphalt of the interior road, he risked his flashlight for a second to fi
nd the sign indicating Sections N thru S. The address of Mark Park’s funeral was N1086. Forest Lawn had been happy to tell him when he’d phoned.

  Huay’s heart jumped when he saw the light from the security golf cart appear on the road. It had just come around a turn, forty yards away. Huay leapt off the road and quickly flattened himself against the ground behind the nearest vertical headstone. He couldn’t be sure if the approaching guard had seen his flashlight.

  In his new position, his face pressed into the grass, Huay detected a faint smell of skunk. He drew his gun and gently thumbed off the safety.

  PEPPERDINE UNIVERSITY, MALIBU – 1:01 A.M.

  Grover couldn’t believe his awesome luck. He’d almost decided not to attend the “Fuck Finals” party. His brutal Econometrics exam was scheduled for ten a.m. the next day, but so far his decision to blow-off studying was looking like it would result in a very positive risk-reward outcome. Juniper (“like the berry bush”, she’d said) was giving him the kind of looks that made a guy feel billy club bold. She was a visitor, a very fresh face from UC Santa Barbara, a friend of Connie’s, one of his Econometrics classmates who lived in the girl’s quad below his. Connie had asked him to take Juniper to the party while she crammed and tooled at the library. Maybe not the brightest move, but Grover figured Connie (a consummate 90 percenter) wouldn’t be affecting his part of the curve anyway.