by P Gaseaux
Chapter Twenty-eight
Nightfall. The figure hauled his wrecked form out of the tidal mud. Gun long gone at the bottom of the river -- no matter, save dumping it -- still had his wallet, cards and cash. Eardrums burst, dizzy, and stinging all over his skin like sunburn. Water forced under one eye socket, bruised ribs maybe broken. Gagging…coughing the tidal filth out of his lungs; worse than industrial tar. Shirt ripped away and shoes torn off. A bloody nose, like he’d copped one.
The Tamil clawed through the hyacinth, then scrambled up the riverbank and staggered down the road like a drunk. Found a shack with a local family making rice to go with their meal of chicken-claw soup, he knocked gently. He held out the last of his cash, telling them some tale of how he’d been assaulted by teenagers. They didn’t want his money, so he washed in cold water and borrowed some old clothes and changed. They offered him food but he declined, he thanked the local family who were shrimp farmers by trade. He accepted their offer to stay the night, and then he’d keep moving. He had a deposit box in the city, had everything in there he needed for a time like this.
He couldn’t sleep, the fall had knocked his lights out and even the swarms of mosquitoes did not upset the Tamil as he lay there wondering if he’d make it through the night.
Typical, he thought. If you’ve got something they’ll take it without asking. If you’ve got nothing they’ll help you. Even the shirt off their backs.
Vancouver International, Canada. The officer in arrivals sighed, utterly hated tour groups. At least it wasn’t more Koreans…
“Morning. Passports and ticketing, please ma’am?”
Probably didn’t understand a thing; hardly any of them did.
The passenger smiled dumbly and answered with a single noise looking blank. Sounded like a cough. They did that sometimes.
“Anything to declare?” grumbled the officer. Damn, they got weird-ass names.
“The passenger pulled out a can of Chinese Tea and thrust it at the officer, speaking in jumbled Pidgin English: “Please, I have some. You must try. I give you this one; very healthy; can keep-”
The officer ducked and shook her head, irritated, checking the return ticket, the visa, the week-long booking at Lake Louise and tossed her head. “Exit that way, ma’am; your guide’s waiting. Have a nice day.”
They always try to hand you stuff… “Next, please!” The ‘please’ was an effort.
On this day Pakdee was armed with a passport in the name of Miss Tukkata‘Julie’ Nonglaitanitr -- age forty-one, occupation school headmistress and single. She whipped her wheeled bag off the belt, then to the red lane holding her can of tealeaves up. The passport, manufactured at short notice on Kitti’s orders had been backdated one year and decorated with stamps abroad for good measure. Precautionary measure, just in case…somebody ushered her to the exit where she walked out to the landing and jumped into a nondescript vehicle sitting in the five-minute zone. A fidgety elderly man was in the driver’s seat, expecting this arrival but not pleased to see her.
An hour later Pakdee was seated in the Mut-Mee Thai, a Restaurant in Vancouver’s Chinatown with three other compatriots -- the proprietor, his wife and their daughter, a woman who was the same height and age as she was. The people at her table were naturalized Canadians who had lived there for years. They were nervous, very nervous ever since a few days prior a gentleman in a three piece suit had knocked at their door. A gracious and polite fellow who let himself into the eatery; he spoke to them for an hour and then left after giving them an ultimatum they were in no position to ignore. Now this from the old country sat at the same seat. She had the same presence; she spoke in the same tone of voice.
The restaurateurs were frightened…why was the old country still clawing at them and who had sent this stranger?
“It’s like this, My Elder,” said Pakdee. She addressed the owner with respect. “You only wait three days, and then you contact the authorities.”
The restaurant owner shook his head and his wife protested. “This bothers me, we are good people. None of us have had any trouble here. We like it here! This is our home-”
“I think you will do exactly as we say.” She’d done her homework, aided by the general’s helpers who had done the dirty business. “You agree to this and your nephew will be released…the serious charges dropped.”
Across the sea a there was a male relative who had brought shame upon them. Great shame; tut-tut…a black sheep of the family back in the old country had been arrested several days ago in possession of a firearm, five thousand stimulant tablets along with illicit cash and since then remanded in maximum security. A catastrophe for an otherwise respectable family, and maybe a capital charge for the youth.
“And where are we if we do this and you don’t keep your side of the-”
“Listen to me,” interrupted Pakdee. “My offer is on the table and it is real.” She drummed the surface of the bar to make her point. Several customers were enjoying their meals, oblivious to the discussion. The owner picked up his shot glass and gulped it down.
“Maybe a better way of telling you is what will happen if you refuse to cooperate. The boy may just have an accident in there…you know he’s in a room with forty other prisoners...rapists, killers and lunatics.” She drummed her fingers. “The attorney will request the red pills be resubmitted for testing and forensics only find caffeine and chalk….once that happens his money gets returned and after there’s the gun. Not exactly a hanging offence in Thailand. He pays a fine and he walks. Think about it.”
They thought about it alright, their relative in the worst jail outside of North Korea. Not to mention a journey to the ‘Place of Redemption’, their euphemism for execution. Something that could happen weeks, months and even years after a lengthy trial. No prior notice, no last meal, nothing…hauled out of an overcrowded cell…one telephone call, an audience with a Buddhist monk then the injection.
The daughter frowned before passing her things across the table: purse, driver’s license and keys to her vehicle.
“It’s an old one. I’ll need your Canadian passport too and all the passwords for your cards.”
The daughter heaved a sigh and pouted, like a grumpy teen. “Not here, at my apartment.”
“I can wait.”
She could wait but only briefly. She knew JJ Hatfield was in danger of the worst kind. Pakdee held the driver’s license between her thumb and forefinger. The daughter looked almost exactly the same only she had been born two years after. The resemblance was striking. She would need to tone her appearance down somewhat for the crossing.
A great deal of time and effort, ’…they wouldn’t be looking for a Canuck…’ that’s what Kitti assured her.
“Purpose of your visit to the United States?” The CBP officers were armed, unlike the ones in Vancouver. They were energetic and animated unlike the Canadian authorities. They were in ominous black uniforms unlike the starched lily-white shirts in the airport a few days earlier. Pakdee took a deep breath.
“Purchasing some plates and items for my restaurant,” she replied. She passed over a business card belonging to somebody with a Vietnamese name in Sacramento. “Please officer, call them. They are expecting me.”
“Ma’am, please look directly at the camera. Don’t smile; just normal.” He shot a second look and was taken aback by her dental work glinting in the light.
“An accident three years ago; ice hockey with my kids and my son got me with the stick…all my jaw wired up; hospital one week…oooie!” She covered her mouth, feigning self-consciousness. She loved his reaction -- they all had the same second look when they saw -- followed by the level of guilt, like staring at the disabled…
Soccer mom; hockey mom…my ass!
In training a while, Kitti fast-tracked her through the course then handed her over to the ‘Rangers’. It’d been a jump, the pinnacle of her life. Exhilarating…she’d
done some ten-thousand footers, vainly trying to keep up with the other recruits and this one was a male-only bastion. Pakdee fulfilled an ambition to jump and she got to do it for nothing.
Free-falling was a better feeling than…
She’d badgered the general and he agreed, just to shut her up but it was expensive and dangerous. A HALO jump out of a C137, six miles high above the coast, minus-thirty chill-factor. Everything went fine; the climb, decompression then that leap…solo. All went to plan till the ‘chute opened, it billowed full of air at two thousand and she floated down. Missed the beach and sailed straight into a grove of mango trees. Took out most of her lower jaw and knocked her out, then two weeks in the naval hospital. The reconstruction wasn’t so good so she went back and did one better. The best maxilla-facial surgeon in the world removed the bone and replaced everything in platinum. Cost her the earth. Her skull was worth more than a new car. No more MRI-scans for Pakdee.
The officer had another look at the mug shot, then her. Not quite right, but having her dental work smashed in would perhaps explain it. The passport had only a year left and the license more recent. He ran a search engine as he was chatting, the dinnerware supplier checked out but too late to call.
“That’s the only luggage, ma’am?”
“I’m travelling light. I need all the space I can for these boxes of plates in the back.” Pakdee flicked her head toward the rear and reclined seats.
The second officer was satisfied. A check with the mirror showed nothing and the black Labrador seemed disinterested after sniffing over the diesel Golf, it wanted a tug-of-war with its handler.
“On the reader, please ma’am.” As she rested on the plate the officer called to the dog handler. “Bob! Do me a favor, give our guy in the Mounties a call and run the plates then I’ll cut her loose.” He turned to her. “Thanks for your patience. Your passport is nearly out. Think about getting an EDL when you renew. Be a lot quicker next time. Be seated in your vehicle and I’ll come out and lift the boom.”
Pakdee awaited the scan; she was confident they didn’t have her prints. She returned to the Golf, knowing the real owner of the compact was at that moment sweating and waiting for another forty eight hours before she could report the burglary; hoping she didn’t one day have to cross the same border in person.
The first officer took one last look at her and opened the passport, reading the front page for a moment, looking at her and back at the mug shot: “What’s your star sign…I’m a Capricorn; what are you?”
“I was born in the Year of the Tiger!” blurted Pakdee.
The officer closed the passport and scowled at her. “Anybody ever told you you’re a little strange, lady?” He shook his head, and passed the documents through the open window.
Everybody thought she was strange.
The MV Chinsurah Bulker, a Bangladeshi owned and Liberian registered grain carrier towered above the Mississippi as she rounded the reach and prepared to dock at the terminal. The waterline was fifteen feet above the water but after a few days she would be filled with 30,000 tons of wheat, destined for ports in the Indian Ocean. The crew scurried around preparing for docking and the master gunned the massive diesel, fighting the swift current while the tugs struggled alongside, pulling her upstream.
As evening descended and giant conveyors poured export grain in the hold, twelve crewmembers descended the gangplank. They were dressed in tasteless clothes, guaranteed to make them look out of place in the French Quarter where the minibus would be headed. The rest of the seamen were taking shore leave the next evening. They were recruited from a number of locations and one of them; a newcomer sent from India, appeared out of place the whole voyage. The ship’s master had made a note of the man’s ineptitude ever since he joined the vessel and would be certain to complain to the labor hire company back in Chittagong -- little did the captain know he would be in for a much bigger problem. The whole ship would be in for it, once it all went down.
As the ship’s crew presented their passports and international seafarer’s cards, the Tamil smiled, anything could be had for a meager sum in India. After the attack on the bridge he fled over the border and picked up a new identity from the underworld in Kuala Lumpur then straight to Madras where there was a network of Ex-Liberation-Tigers. Old customers and contacts, they were eager to assist. Only other thing the Tamil needed was a boat; airports everywhere would be alerted to his face and there was no time for plastic surgery.
That’s how he made it. In the Crescent City there was a place the Tamil knew of and he would soon meet with a dear and trusted old friend: the Nigerian, Samuel Ojukowne. Like Frankenstein’s monster, the Nigerian was the last real big gun at the Tamil’s disposal. The syndicate had always sold guns, now they’d need one of their own.
Demobilization for the land unit. Santorini was perfect that time of year. The bar was doing good business that evening -- a large group had descended on the place at once and they were drinking beer and celebrating loudly. At one table the Lowenstein, van de Meuwe and the team leader were seated and the rest of the land unit took up the bar; they were drinking beer and munching on Greek snacks. Some were nursing minor injuries, cuts, bruises and sprains. One of the specialists had a broken rib where a round got his vest. Tomorrow a little naval vessel would dock and collect the land unit and whisk them home; all except Lowenstein. He was flying out late tonight on a commercial leg.
Van de Meuwe would be getting a call soon…that knock on the door; a tap on the shoulder, summoned to the commander’s office. The headhunters from the service were coming to get her…the spooks. They’d been watching her every move for a couple of years now, with the same level of interest as an enemy target. Very soon, now she’d be working with them. The rider always had her ambitions, wanted to go places and see the world. She’d need to hang on tight…the ride of a lifetime with a lot of boredom in between. She’d need to spruce up and keep a handle on that temper of hers.
The running man rose and gave an impromptu speech and left it at that, some banter and congratulations before departing. Then the land unit stood as if on cue and raised their beers and cocktails…tonight they could let their hair down.
“Operation Arcana!” cried one of them.
They cheered and downed their drinks. Mission accomplished. Maybe…
Hatfield waited in the medical center in Beckley. He hated the place. The appointments were aggravating but at least his meds were supplied, the basics anyhow. All he had to do was make the drive up the road if the old pickup would start.
On this day JJ Hatfield was unsettled, the waiting time was longer than usual. When he was called in the doctor was some locum he’d never met before. He’d only come that day to discuss test results and prognosis, everything else was the same.
“Where the hell’s my regular medic gone?” he grumbled. She had been the one treating him and her absence was irritating. He was very fond of her; she had a personal manner lacking in other physicians.
“Ah, Sergeant Hatfield, she is on leave. She is visiting her parents over in Teheran for a few weeks. But do not be alarmed, she went to great efforts to fill me in on your history.” Many of the staff there still addressed him by rank.
The Doc…an Iranian?! Never would’ve picked it, knew she was ethnic. What’s become of the world? Yet she was the best quack in the place…knew her stuff, too.
The locum shuffled some test results. “Look, I can run you through these if you like. The cirrhosis we’re talking about here has progressed fairly aggressively over the past six months despite the treatment we’re pumping in.” The medic turned the file around, picking several readings he thought were likely to impress. “With the levels in this column it suggests from what histopathology has come back with we have quite an issue with the rate of degeneration as shown by the ultrasounds that compare with past images. Over the course of time we have had a significant elevation in AST
and ALT-”
“Doc, cut the crap will you. What are you trying to say in plain English?”
The medic popped the clipboard file on the gurney and paused a moment. “Sergeant, it’s really not good news I’m afraid.”
“Plain ‘not good’ or plain old totally bad?”
“There is an option,” replied the medic. “I can place you on a priority waiting list for some surgery but it would be my obligation to say the risks are significant…about fifty-fifty.”
“What…of fixing it?”
“There is a fifty percent survival rate, sir. The surgeons would be cutting about a third to one half of the organ out, where there has been damage present.”
“Suppose a full transplant is outta the question?”
“You know how it is, Sergeant Hatfield. Veterans’ services only cover so much, I’m sorry to say. Anything further you’d have to check with your provider.” The medic looked wistfully at him. He knew full well many vets had no provider. Some of the old soldiers didn’t even have a proper roof over their heads. Yet they defended their flag, fought for freedom and none of them knew why at the time.
“I suppose, I really shouldn’t be saying this sir, but…it is possible to have a full transplant done by world-class surgeons in some places. The cost is still quite high and there are ethical issues with this kind of thing.”
After a long pause, Hatfield had another read of the results. Gibberish, all of it.
“Give it some thought,” said the medic. “Sergeant I can get the counter to run you through it. I suggest you sign up. It won’t happen next week, that’s all I can say. I can’t force your hand but if you don’t the prognosis is not so reassuring…”
“Meaning?”
The doctor was uneasy. “What this means is total organ failure in nine months to a year, save some kind of a miracle.”
The health-worker’s sing-song voice babbled away and JJ Hatfield just tuned right out. ‘Miracle’…huh!! His thoughts drifted to his late wife. Breast cancer got her just after he returned from Desert Storm, it had been mercifully rapid. They met after Indochina and she’d brought him back to the real world. Right now the real world was disappearing beneath his feet, real quick.
JJ Hatfield pushed open the doors and walked a while, slowly as his feet hurt. At least he had feet. There was some young guy in a wheelchair who always staked out a spot, a young marine the same age as Billy-Bob who’d lost both legs in Baghdad. They’d gone to school together. Spent his days selling stuff like little hand-carved curios, flags, badges and other souvenirs…the stuff the disabled guy sold lined the sidewalk and the colostomy-bag hung to the back of the wheelchair under a blanket.
“Sez…hey, Gunny,” he called out as Hatfield went by. “Buy a flag?”
“Got one already at the front of my shack,” mumbled Hatfield. He stopped and cast his eyes at the crippled kid’s wares. Stooped down and picked up a hickory carving the guy had done, bit bigger than his hand. A figurine standing to attention, done up in a USMC uniform but it had the head of a bulldog under a combat helmet on top with fangs poking out, looked like a comic-book thing. He went to replace it.
“Fifty bucks,” said the kid in the wheelchair. “Whittled it myself by hand; only one in existence, Gunny. Give yer good luck when yer’s least expectin’ it. Would I lie?”
Hatfield changed his mind; he reached in and checked his pouch -- two twenties. “Give yer forty,” he mumbled. Handed it over and took the carving. Got back to his truck, got it started and waved to the wheelchair man as he drove past. He often agonized about the vet but the guy seemed cheerful enough…not bad for a soldier cut down like that in the prime of his youth, he admired the fellow. Always there like a lamppost; a bad day if he didn’t show.
Hatfield figured the statue would look okay on the dash of his truck. Had some special industrial glue in the basement, toss the carving under the house and fix it on later.
