by Barry Sadler
Han nodded. "Would this man be able to secure the services of enough men to ensure the success of my program?"
Shan gave him an affirmative nod. "Yes, and I believe that with my good friends in the government, we may be able to lend him some direct assistance also. As you know, kind Han, the Nationalist government is always ready to render aid to anyone who may hinder or embarrass the communists."
Han grinned knowingly. "Would the honorable and brave major be able to communicate with these disreputable ones? If so, this unworthy merchant is ready to place all the funds needed to secure the services of this man and his outlaw friends, uh ... was it Van Tran and George?"
Major Shan agreed to perform the necessary steps to secure the services of the man he knew as Casey Romain. A weird sounding name, almost Latin, he thought. He'd once started to ask the origin of the name, but Romain was not one to ask many questions of, and he'd hesitated.
CHAPTER TWO
Taking a long, hard pull from the mug of lukewarm Australian beer, Casey Romain wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his heavily scarred hand. The hardest thing to find in the Orient was a good iced mug of beer. Too bad, he thought, the Americans hadn't arrived before the Limeys had taught these people to enjoy warm beer.
Casey looked across the table, smiling inwardly at the picture presenting itself there. A member of the South Vietnamese aristocracy and a Montagnard savage with his teeth filed to points, were crying in their beers because a Malayan whore had just told them a hard luck story, a story Casey had heard himself in the port of Ostia in the year of ... damn, how long ago had it been? For Casey Romain, time had become merely the simple movement of hands around the face of a clock or the sun's circle of the earth, a nonessential event that turned days into years and years into centuries, till the passage of time was meaningless. He tore his mind away from the past. It was unpleasant.
Well, he thought, at least the passing of time with these two idiots is never boring, to say the least. He laughed inwardly at how indignant the Englishman, Harrison, had been when he had stuck a .45 into his ear and made him fly into South Vietnam to pick up George and Van. And while Harrison still complained of the way Casey treated him, they had become good friends over the years.
It was a message from Phang that told where his friends would be waiting. Phang had the message delivered to him in K.L. by an opium dealer of long acquaintance. Once he had that, there was no way he was going to leave them behind to be picked up by the North Vietnamese. Harrison had been unlucky enough to have the only plane around that had the range to get there and back.
He had become disillusioned with the Americans when they proved to him that they were willing to let thousands of good men like George and Van, who were currently seated across the table from him, to be written out of existence, men who'd thrown their lives on the line and given their loyalty to the Americans fighting the communists, to be stabbed in the back with a "tough shit" when the chips were down. These two wouldn't have lasted ten minutes once the commies had gotten their hands on them, and Phang would have bitten off a lot of trouble if he had kept them with him. He had to get them out, and Harrison was handy at the time. Between the four of them they had done some deals together, and Singapore was a city where something was always happening or about to happen and business deals could be made. And now it seemed that they were about to be offered another contract by the good major.
He checked his wristwatch and looked toward the door, wondering what it was that Shan had on his mind, or up his sleeve, this time. The last deal he'd offered had proved to be profitable, even if it had been risky. Singapore was one of his favorite cities, and his feet were not particularly itchy for action. He'd much rather be in K.L. drinking palm toddies, but man does not live by toddy alone. The bank account was running low, and he'd been glad to hear from the major. Shan always paid well, if somewhat reluctantly.
George and Van had started to sing a somewhat disrespectful song about Chairman Mao and a passionate water buffalo, when through the smoke, which was about twenty percent opium now, walked a mufti clad Major Shan. He was doing his best to appear an average Chinese businessman, but the stiff, rod up the ass look gave him away. The straight back said military.
Shan crossed the room, ignoring the pleadings of the vintage 1940 jukebox and its scratched strains of "Don't Be Cruel." Thrusting his way between a curtain of multicolored beads, the right honorable Major Shan looked down upon the right dishonorable Casey Romain.
Casey raised himself to the standing position, drawing his five foot ten frame erect, his two hundred compacted pounds of muscle and scar tissue making him appear smaller than he actually was. He didn't offer his hand.
"How the hell are you, Shan?" he knew that such familiarity would piss the hell out of the officer. "And what can we do for you this time?"
Shan rolled his gaze over Romain, once again analyzing this strange American, or whatever he was, who refused to show respect for his superiors. One day, he reminded himself, he would have to do something about that; but not now. For the time being he had need of this strange man with the disquieting gaze and the slightly pockmarked face, evidence of a losing bout with acne at a tender age but now giving him a somewhat sinister cast when combined with steady blue eyes that looked through you as if you weren't there.
Shan shook these thoughts off, collecting himself. After all, he was the one in control here, not this barbarian and his besotted companions. Ah, Lord Buddha, he thought to himself, it is unfortunate indeed that a man of my sensibilities must do business with animals of this caliber. But such is business, and the garden of the merchant is not as far out of reach now as it was before.
The two men seated themselves. Shan, ignoring the two singing drunks across the table, spoke first.
"Ah, my friend, it is indeed good to see you after all these many months. I thought of you often. Have you been well?"
Casey looked long and steady at the major. By God, we're in for it now, he thought. The wily bastard's never been this nice to us before. He must have something really crazed up his sleeve.
"Thank you for your kind concern. It is indeed an honor for you to take your valuable time into consideration of such poor men as ourselves." Casey figured he might as well play the game. "How may we be of service to you?"
Shan looked about him, ascertained that no others were within earshot, and turned back to Casey.
"I have a mission for you. A mission, if successful, that may provide you and your... associates with enough to live comfortably for the rest of your natural life, or in their case," he indicated the two off key singers, “their unnatural lives." Shan immediately regretted giving in to the temptation of the small dig at Van and George.
Casey laughed, thinking, natural life? Mine? If the major only knew. "Okay, Major. You've broken the phony front of displaying Chinese manners. Now what's the deal? Lay it all out for me, the good with the bad. Then I'll tell you if we want it or not. It won't go any further than this table if we refuse the deal. I know you're not above having some of your boys shove a banana knife in our ears one night if we talk, so since we all know the score, lay it on me."
Shan let loose a deep sigh. "Ah, perhaps it is better to deal with you barbarians in your own manner. At least it limits the amount of time that I shall have to spend in your company."
"I love you too, Major," countered Casey. "Now, shit or get off the pot and let us go back to Malaya and our women."
"Very well, it shall be as you wish. This is, as you say, the deal." Shan laid out the problem of the merchant and his abandoned family members, omitting nothing except the fact that he personally would be making a small fortune at Casey's risk. "That, my barbarian friend, is the entire deal. Will you accept the contract? If so, I will, unofficially of course, make all the resources at my disposal available to you and the men of your choice. If you succeed in this mission, I am authorized to deposit to your account the sum of two hundred thousand dollars, one half when you
submit an acceptable plan and the balance upon the completion of the mission. In addition, I will supply the funding for whatever else you may need, up to one hundred thousand more and payable as required. Should you need aircraft, they shall be available to you also. Will you accept the mission?"
Casey turned his eyes to Shan, losing a breath. He'd been correct in his assumption that this one was going to be a bitch. But the price was definitely right. He looked over at his two friends. They'd fallen asleep now, holding on to each other, George mumbling endearing comments in the Bihar dialect to Van, which, if Van had been awake and sober enough to comprehend, would have led to a bloody brawl.
He turned his eyes to Shan, nodding slowly. "Give me a week to see if I can come up with a plan of operation and see if I can make contact with any of our surviving friends in that area. You did say you could supply aircraft?" Shan nodded in the affirmative, and Casey continued. "Okay, give me a couple of grand now to cover our expenses while here and also to cover a few small bribes that will update our input. You know, I'm sure, that not a hell of a lot of info has come out of Cambodia since the Khmer Rouge took over. They've shut that place up tighter than a well digger's ass."
Shan nodded and removed a large envelope from his inside coat pocket. "I foresaw your acceptance and your needs, my friend. In this envelope is the sum of three thousand American dollars and the current military analysis of the Cambodian situation. I will expect to hear from you in no less than two weeks. Contact me by cable at my home. In doing so, you will use the phrase `I hope to be able to stop over on my way to Tokyo and visit for a day or so.' This will indicate to me that you have decided to take on the mission. If I receive the cable, I shall contact you at this place no more than three days later. Is that clear?"
CHAPTER THREE
Dawn rose slow, hot, red, and wet over the harbor of Singapore. Casey sat, rocking slowly back and forth, on the small porch outside his room. He'd spent the hours since the meeting with Shan letting his mind flow, not trying to follow any particular pattern but letting the varied thoughts and patterns mingle. This was and had always been his method of allowing his subconscious to marshal all the related experiences and knowledge he'd accumulated in the past.
Taking a long drag off his smoke, he tossed the butt over the side of the porch and into the water, watching as it floated down and landed on a pile of damp leaves, fizzling itself out. The plan came, unbidden but determined, the shape of an operational format forming in his mind. He had his direction, and he knew which way to go. The problem now was to see whether he could put it all together.
He rose, stretching to his full length, walked inside, and showered. After shaving, he dressed and hurried out, closing the door behind him and leaving George and Van still asleep. Time enough for them later. Right now he needed to see a man.
Casey made his way outside to the street, still damp with the morning dew. The smell of last week's catch of fish mingled with the new, providing an aroma like nothing he'd ever smelled. At least Stateside, he hadn't. A pariah dog slunk by with a carp in his mouth and, on seeing Casey, gave a short, unsure snarl and vanished beneath the porch of a noodle shop. Be careful, dog, he thought, because you're fat enough that I'd give even odds before the week's out you may be gracing the table of some honorable Chinese family.
Casey shivered slightly from the morning chill and dampness. He threaded his way through a maze of indistinguishable residences, shops, and other places he'd rather not think about until finally stopping at the edge of a pier. At the pier's end was the Golden Lotus, one of the town's most expensive restaurants, specializing in the most exquisite cuisine Singapore had to offer. All the delicacies of the east could be found here at the Golden Lotus, and for the true epicure of the exotic, the lowliest and most expensive companions that could be had in the Orient also patronized the place. And drugs! Ling K'ai, the wizened owner of the establishment, had long ago cast his net to the corners of Asia, anywhere that a profit could be found, including that area of Vietnam inhabited by the Kamserai.
Casey knew first hand of Ling K'ai's dealings with these mercenaries: opium by the hundredweight, opium that had made Ling one of the wealthiest men in the east. Nations might rise and nations might fall, but if a profit were to show, Ling would persevere through all. He would still have contacts there, Casey was sure. Ling personally had no reason to feel fondness for Casey because Romain had cut severely into the man's profits while serving as an adviser to the tribe of the Kamserai, led by one Sou Phang. Sou Phang had become a blood brother to Casey and had curtailed his tribe's opium trade in exchange for CIA gold and guns and the right to rule his people without the interference of the Saigon government.
Phang would conduct raids on the Cambodian side of the border against the Vietcong and the PAVN (Peoples’ Army of Vietnam) forces, when the Americans and South Vietnamese could not cross over without creating an international incident. He'd often remarked to Casey how stupid it was for the Yankees to provide their enemies a safe refuge to regroup and strike from again. But as long as the Yankees paid well, he was more than glad to do business with them.
If Phang was still in business, Ling would know. He reached the end of the wharf and stopped, taking a deep breath, noticing that the junks were coming in with their morning's catch for the markets and tables of this Oriental Babylon. The small brown waves lapped slowly against the pier's wooden supports again and again, relentlessly, as if to say, "There is no rush; in time you will fall, and the waters will win."
Casey tossed away his second smoke since leaving his room and walked through the open doors. The cleanup coolies were mopping the floors constructed of hand cut tiles, and Casey knew that each square they cleaned was worth more than they would earn in two weeks of labor. Yet they seemed content with their toil.
He made his way into the cool interior of the Golden Lotus, heading to the rear, where Ling kept his office and living quarters. As he approached the door, a figure detached itself from the shadows and stood in front of him, barring further passage. Casey took in the figure confronting him. Ch'ung Ma, Ling's pet hatchet man and shadow, six and a half feet of twisted muscle that could rip the arm off the average man as a child tears the wings from a butterfly. How many men Ch'ung Ma had sent to their ancestors was a matter of conjecture.
Ch'ung smiled slowly at Casey, proudly displaying a matched set of stainless steel teeth, the kind that the Russians of World War II had been partial to. He looked down at Casey, speaking in sucking sibilants.
"What do you here, long nose? Do you not know that the master has promised you to me when we meet? It is good that you have come to me."
Casey shook his head. "Not now, shit for brains. I want to see your boss on business. Now get the hell out of my way before I get pissed."
Ch'ung smiled, light sparkling off his teeth. He bowed and took one step backward. As Casey stepped forward, he straightened and then, leaning back, threw a front snap kick to Casey's throat. Casey moved quickly to the side and deflected the kick with a back knuckle strike to his ankle. Stepping inside, he gave Ch'ung a swinging pointed toe kick in the balls with his right foot. The bodyguard screamed in agony as his testicles were smashed again and again. Casey took a step aside and drop kicked him in the face three times. Finally the screams subsided, turning into blubbering whimpers.
Ch'ung's condition was illuminated as the door he'd tried to prevent Casey from entering opened suddenly, the interior light now showing the wrecked bloody face of Ling K'ai's favorite toy. Ling's gaze rested first on Casey and then moved to Ch'ung.
"Mr. Romain, am I to be forever disturbed by you? Is he broken?"
Casey looked down at Ch'ung, trying now to pull himself erect with the aid of a chair, his knees still on the floor and his body still wracked by sobbing spasms. Casey moved slightly, aligning himself properly, and delivered a lunging side kick to Ch'ung's spine in the lower lumbar region. The sound of bone breaking was quite distinct in the dim light of the hallway.
> "He is now," Casey replied to Ling's question about his man's condition.
Ch'ung was immobile now. Even the sobbing had ceased. Ling turned to the two coolies who'd stopped their cleaning and had seemingly turned into frozen statues when the trouble started.
"Remove this carrion from my floor. Take it away! I do not wish to see it again."
The two coolies rushed to do their master's bidding, dragging the crippled body of the former troubleshooter out through a side door. Casey heard the muted sound of splashing as they disposed of Ling's trusted and most loyal servant.
