“Channy’s plan,” he says. “You know the details?”
“His target is the InterContinental five-star hotel,” she says, now washing his opposite thigh. “He plans to attack with a couple dozen of his NVC soldiers, in the same bloodthirsty commando-style raid as that Pakistani terror group pulled off back in 2008 when they attacked the Mumbai, Taj.”
Sam’s mouth goes dry, and his pulse picks up speed. He recalls the carnage from that attack. Innocent men, women, and kids shot point-blank with AK-47s. It was a made for prime-time cable television news slaughter.
“His demands?” he asks.
“None,” she says. “Terror for terror’s sake. He wants attention. Wants all the world to see what oppressors the U.S. and China have become. He’ll take hostages. He’ll hold them long enough to make his statement known to the world, and then he’ll begin executing them one by one. But in the end, he’ll stage a spectacular finale by blowing the hotel sky high. It will be the horror of the world and a great achievement for Channy Lin and the NVC.”
“Christ,” Sam says, sitting up. “I gotta get dressed. We—”
She sets her hand on his chest, pushes him gently back onto the bed.
“Rest, Sam,” she says. “You’re still hurt, and we have time. The way I have it planned, we’ll be there before he gets there.”
“That’s how Kanchanaburi was supposed to turn out, Cindy. Maybe we should call in reinforcements.”
“Been there, done that. They want us to monitor the situation closely. Take action as needed. But only if he goes ahead with his plan. They don’t want to take a chance of causing a panic. Plus, they don’t wish to reveal their involvement in this project.”
“Channy already knows we’re involved. He pulled my fingernail out over it.”
“He can’t be entirely sure who we work for,” she insists. “We could be working for any number of agencies or any number of countries for that matter.”
“Maybe we’re mercenaries.”
“We might as well be, Sam. But D.C. insists . . . no getting involved until Channy makes his move.”
Shaking his head, Sam exhales a frustrated breath.
“Damn deep state bureaucrats,” he says. “When are they ever going to realize you don’t fight a war based on if and when the enemy shoots first?”
Cindy rolls her eyes. “We’ll do what we can,” she says. “That’s all we can do.”
Sam eases back onto the mattress pad and stares up at the boat’s rough wood ceiling. He feels the sweat beading on his forehead.
“Weapons,” he says. “We need to weapon up.”
“The airplane pilot will have supplies for us,” she assures, shifting the washcloth to another part of Sam’s body. A most sensitive place. “For now, I want you to relax.”
“Is this another one of your happy endings?” he asks.
“Think of this as a happy new beginning,” she says, smiling.
Call it what you want, Sam thinks. But I must have died and gone to heaven.
Minutes later, Sam is back up top feasting on a bowl of rice and fish, washing it down with an ice-cold Cambodian beer. The rice and fish are fresh and hot, and the beer, crisp and clean. Despite the torture from the previous day and night, Sam feels happy. Like he’s been reborn.
The river is flat, heavy, and brown. They pass other boats traveling in the opposite direction. Boats filled with nets and fish or even filled to the gills with coconuts. Skinny, shirtless men drive the boats. Some wave as they pass, others just stare, a mixture of curiosity and caution in their dark eyes.
“How long until we arrive at the border?” Sam asks.
Cindy is also enjoying a cold beer while she watches Sam eat. She glances at her wristwatch.
“We’re nearly there,” she explains. “Eat up.”
He drinks and eats with a vengeance. When he’s done with the food, he sets the bowl aside.
“Cindy,” he says. “One very important question.”
“Shoot,” she says.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
She sips her beer, stares out at the river and the thick jungle that covers the opposite bank.
“Ultimately, you don’t, Sam,” she says. After a long beat, she continues. “Three years ago, I was pulled out of South East Asia and sent to Moscow to babysit a brand-new agent known as Boris who was sniffing out dirt on Medvedev and Putin and all their killer cronies. We were seated inside a café where Medvedev and some of his men were drinking vodka and getting drunk. Boris was recording the conversation with a state-of-the-art mini voice detection system that fit in his coat pocket. He kept fiddling with the device, swearing it wasn’t right, and that he was going to be big trouble if he didn’t get the conversation. He was sweating, despite the freezing winter, and he kept staring at the table of Russians which is a no-no in this business, as you are aware. You could see the beads of sweat building up on Boris’ forehead. He was afraid of his own shadow.
“Naturally, I kept telling him to calm down and just trust the equipment and act naturally. But he was letting his fear get to him. Men like Medvedev and Putin, they are not only powerful, they are survivors and opportunists. They not only know how to sniff out money, but they also know how to sniff out danger. So, when two of Medvedev’s men sensed something wasn’t right, they got up and approached the table. As they walked toward us, I pushed my fork off the table. I immediately got up and bent down to retrieve it. At the same time, I dug into Boris’ coat pocket and snatched the listening device. I stuffed it in the pocket on my leather coat, then picked up the fork and sat back down.
“The two men who approached us were built like houses. They wore all black. They demanded Boris clean out his pockets. He was so nervous he was slurring his speech and stuttering. I haven’t done anything wrong, he kept repeating over and over. The men accused him of being American. Then they accused him of being a spy. They pulled out their guns, aimed them at his head. He pleaded with them, No, no, don’t shoot! He began to cry. That’s when I said, Gentlemen, I only met this man out on the street some hours ago. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the device. It’s me you want. The two men looked at one another, grabbed the device and dragged me away while Boris ran to safety. I was held in a prison for nearly a month until I was sprung in a clandestine spy swap. By then, I’d lost nearly twenty pounds, and some of my hair had fallen out. That’s how much you can trust me, Sam.”
Sam thinks about her leading him out of the prison. He thinks about the food and water she left him after Channy tortured him. He sees her coming for him just as the dawn arrived. Sees her unlocking the steel barred door and leading him up and out of the underground prison, through the jungle, and to the river. He sees her hands on him, and he knows in his heart that he should be trusting her, but can he really? That’s the ten-million-dollar question. All he truly knows is that he intends on stopping Channy before the terrorist and his men get a chance to enter the InterContinental Hotel.
Sam nods. “What choice do I have, Cindy?” he says. “But I would be more trusting of the situation if we called in the Ho Chi Minh police and, at the very least, alerted the hotel to impending danger.”
She vehemently shakes her head. “You know we can’t do that, Sam,” she insists. “If only we could do that, but we can’t. We need to let Channy seal his own fate and that of his terrorist organization. Stop him in his tracks now, and he will only find a way to get himself out of legal jeopardy, and he will once again be free to perform his terroristic acts.”
Sam can’t get the logic she’s offering through his head. Then again, he could never wrap his brain around the logic of how Americans handle their mental illness crisis, for instance. One must wait until some crazy person performs an act of violence to themselves and/or others before they can be arrested and hospitalized. It’s the same crazy logic the agencies often times attach to catching terrorists, too.
Just then, the boat pilot begins making for shore. Once they arrive, Sam
and Cindy disembark. Parked on a dirt road is a tuck-tuck.
“The tuck-tuck will take us to the plane, Sam,” Cindy informs.
“You’ve thought of everything,” Sam says.
Hopping into the back of the motorcycle-powered tuck-tuck, the two hold on while they speed over the bumpy unpaved road. The thick jungle that flanks them is interrupted only by the occasional snack stand or shack that sells old liquor bottles filled with gasoline.
The difference between America and Cambodia is fifty years, Sam thinks.
In a matter of minutes, they arrive at a long, open field that’s been hewn out of the jungle. A plane is waiting at the far end of the field. It’s a single engine Cessna.
“There’s our ride,” Cindy informs.
The tuck-tuck drops them off at the plane and then motors away.
“Cindy, is that you?” calls out a voice from inside the cockpit.
The door on the Cessna opens, and Sam gets his first good look at the pilot—an attractive brunette who can’t be more than forty. She’s got big brown eyes and thick, long black hair. For a brief second, she reminds him of his lost love, Lauren. He was engaged to be married to Lauren, but her life was cut short when she was killed by a hit-and-run driver while jogging. Even after all these years, Sam can’t help but tear up whenever he is reminded of her. Right now, is one of those times.
He smiles at the pilot.
“Betsy, meet Sam,” Cindy says by way of introduction. “Sam, meet Betsy.”
Sam extends his hand.
“You remind me of someone, Betsy,” he says, gazing up at her behind the wheel of the Cessna.
She takes his hand with her leather glove-covered hand, squeezes it gently.
“That so,” she smiles “Someone nice, I hope.”
In his head, Sam sees he and Lauren lying in bed on a rainy Sunday afternoon, an open bottle of red wine on the bed stand, their bodies naked, feet touching, his hand holding hers. They’re laughing over something stupid. The world can get along without them because they are their own little world. After more wine and laughter, they’ll make love again, and they’ll be as one.
“She was very nice,” he says. “But she’s gone now.”
“Hop up, Sam,” Cindy insists, hurrying things along. “We’ve got a job to do.”
Unbuckling her belt, Betsy steps out of the plane onto the wing. Pulling up the pilot’s seat she makes room for Sam to slip into the back. She then pushes the seat back in place and resumes her position behind the control stick. Cindy goes around to the starboard side and hops into the shotgun seat. Everyone buckles up.
“Hope you’re not afraid of flying, Sam,” Betsy announces. “Some nasty downdrafts today across the entirety of South East Asia. Could be a rough one.”
She has no idea I’m a Sky Marshal and have flown and survived every nasty weather condition possible, including dangerous electrical storms, severe turbulence, and even a blown-out engine . . .
“I’ll do my best not to pee my pants,” Sam says.
Betsy starts the prop, and suddenly the Cessna is vibrating, the cabin fills with the roar of the engine. The plane moves forward, slowly at first, but then very quickly gains speed. The earth under the tires is rough. Then, Betsy gives it some gas, and just like that, the ride smooths out as the machine takes to the air.
Staring out the window, Sam peers down on a canopy of green trees that quickly give way to an expansive checkerboard of rice paddies. The plane bucks and drops as the engine strains, but it quickly recovers.
“Sorry about that, folks,” Betsy says. “Keep those seat belts fastened and for all those passengers presently in the lavatories, please return to your seats.”
The more the plane rocks and rolls, the more Sam feels at home, and his still exhausted body relaxes. He feels his eyelids grow heavy and soon he finds himself in never-never land.
A finger taps Sam’s hand. He opens his eyes.
“I must have dozed off,” he admits, shaking the cobwebs from his brain.
“Dozed off,” Cindy says. “I thought we were gonna die it was so rough, and all you did was snore the whole way.”
A quick glance out the window reveals a cityscape. Ho Chi Minh City—aka, Saigon. Sam leans forward, his head between the front bucket seats.
“Where we putting down?” he asks.
Betsy scooches closer to him.
“The old Vietnam era airfield,” she says. “It’s where all the U.S. troops came and went during the war. It’s abandoned now. I can quickly slip you in and then just as quickly slip on out.”
“Roger that,” Sam says.
He might ask about the return trip, but he’s quite sure Cindy has it all arranged. The plane descends, and soon they are on the ground. Before exiting the plane, Cindy and Sam are each issued a 9mm semi-automatic apiece, along with two additional magazines. They bid their farewells to Betsy, and while they seek out an opening in the chain link fence that surrounds the old airfield and abandoned airplane hangar, Betsy quickly takes to the sky once more.
From now on, Sam thinks as they approach a gaping gash in the fence, we’re on our own.
Their weapons concealed, Sam and Cindy hire a taxi to take them to the InterContinental Hotel which is situated in the center of the city on the river. They are dropped off, not at the front door, but down the road a bit at Cindy’s request. Exiting the taxi, they stand on the sidewalk and breathe in the hot, humid air. The street is jam-packed with men and women riding motorbikes. Cars and trucks share what little road space is leftover. So, too, do brave souls on bicycles.
Sam gazes at his watch. “Getting close to happy hour,” he says. “What time should we expect Channy and his army?”
“Could be any time,” Cindy says. “That is if he hasn’t called it off now that he knows we’ve made our escape.”
Sam hadn’t thought of that. Channy could be so spooked now he’s decided to call off the whole show. Or not.
“My guess is this operation is too important to him,” Sam says. “No doubt it took a whole lot of coordination and expense, which means he’s not about to quit now just because a couple of spooks have managed to slip out the back, Jack.”
“You’re right,” Cindy agrees. “He’s got nothing to hide anyway. He wants the world to know he’s capable of killing hundreds of innocent lives.”
They step from the sidewalk without waiting for a break in the steady stream of motorized traffic and begin to cross the road. Sam already knows the traffic in Vietnam does not yield for anything. Not even human beings. This means the two must scoot in and out of the speeding motorbikes and four-wheeled vehicles. When they come to the opposite sidewalk and head toward the hotel, they pass by an old woman wearing the traditional straw conical hat selling colorful flowers and an old man in sandals and shorts selling dried fruits, fish, and crickets.
Sam notices the black Mercedes Benz four-door sedan as it pulls up to the front lobby of the InterContinental Hotel. A uniformed bellhop immediately approaches the car and opens the rear door. A suited Chinese man emerges followed by a stunning thirty-something woman wearing a short, black skirt and stilletos. Her legs seem to stretch all the way to her shoulders. She flings an expensive purse over her shoulder just as the earth trembles. The explosion whistles through the glass front of the hotel lobby, cutting her long legs off in an instant. It obliterates the Chinese man and decapitates the bellhop. The car bursts into flames.
Acting on instinct, Sam and Cindy immediately hit the pavement. Another blast rocks the InterContinental. This one, on the seventh floor. Glass, concrete, and steel rain down on the sidewalk and the street. So do body parts. People begin screaming and running in every direction. Motorbikes collide with one another. A truck runs into a tuck-tuck, the motorbike driver is tossed into the street like a rag doll.
One more explosion takes out the penthouse floor of the five-star hotel. Once more, debris rains down onto the sidewalk causing more confusion and chaos in the street. A woman runs out
of the hotel, her hair on fire. Her screams are blood-curdling, and they cease only when the fire consumes her entire head and she collapses.
Sam gets up, draws his 9mm.
“I’m going in,” he says.
“On your tail, Sam,” Cindy barks.
As the two approach the gruesome scene of the lobby explosion, automatic gunfire can be heard coming from the hotel interior. Sam crouches behind the burning Mercedes and manages to get a look inside. One particular man catches his eye. He turns to Cindy.
“Maybe a dozen men and women dressed in black uniforms,” he says. “I think Channy is one of them. Armed with AK-47s. Hostages. Maybe a couple dozen of them. American and Chinese would be my guess based on Channy’s mission.”
“We can’t just run in there guns a’blazing,” Cindy insists.
Death, carnage, blood, and violence surround them. But Sam can’t help but smile.
“You didn’t just say, guns a’blazing, did you?”
Cindy smiles back. “I did.”
“Guess what I’m gonna do?”
“I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Final scene. Full stop.” Sam says.
“I was afraid of that.”
Cocking a round into the chamber, thumbing the safety off, Sam counts to three. Then he sprints inside the burning building . . . guns a’blazing.
As if it were planned in advance, Cindy shoots right while Sam shoots left. He fires three rounds that take down the first three terrorists. Cindy takes down two. The terrorists in the center of the lobby shift and return the fire.
“Go!” Sam screams at the hostages. “Run! Run!”
“Save yourself!” Cindy screams. “Save your children!”
Sam gazes at her out the corner of his eyes, sees her calmly take aim, even while bullets from automatic rifles whiz past her head. She takes down two more. Sam shoots and strikes another terrorist. His magazine now empty, he thumbs the release and without breaking his aim, loads a second mag. He continues shooting while being shot at. But that’s when shots ring out from Sam’s left flank.
Tunnel Rats Page 7
