Missing Louise

by Nicholas Frankcom

  “We’re going to need you soon. We’re going to need everyone. Before long I will tell you a lot that you will have to know. There is something of great beauty and danger that we seek. When I tell you it will be too late to leave. You understand?”

  “Whatever you say Pin. I’ll be more than happy to throw myself into any goose-chase with you guys. Will be good to earn my keep and that.”

  Pin hated John’s oblivious flippancy, which was a trait John applied to many things. He was using their jungle retreat, the Hmongs home, as little more than a holiday camp, a place where he could relax and get stoned on the plentiful weed. Pin guessed that this was fine to a degree; after all he was a guest. Most backpackers journeying through Laos liked a smoke and that was fine, after all, it was their domestic brethren who provided them with a market. What really irked him was the sloth like laziness which accompanied John whether he were smoking or not. Because of this and his general arrogance, Pin took immediate dislike to John when their paths first crossed. This was not unusual, most people did. You then either intensified the dislike into pure hatred or mellowed towards his off-hand manner. Pin was undecided. He watched with growing scrutiny as the pale backpacker forced a grin and settled back to his empty agenda.

  As Pin turned to leave there was a sharp crack, followed by a flurry of other shots. He could tell immediately that the shots were from different weapons. He knew also that the repeated fire pointed to automatic rifles. This was no hunting expedition. He turned his head in the direction from where the shots had rung out. More now followed. By his reckoning, the conflict was all taking place up on the main road that winded on towards Vang Vieng. That was around two miles from where their camp lay concealed. His mind was racing through a set of possibilities, the complete list of fucked up scenarios. In all probability the violent fracas up on the road had nothing to do with them. The shots were far enough away to back this up. The area was very rural, lots of patchy jungle and rocky outcrops providing open invitations for groups of bandits to plunder the road and quickly melt away. When he noticed the billowing smoke bellowing up above the tree line his mind was made up. Bandits or not, they were bringing chaos to his doorstep and imminent danger. It could even be a warm-up with their camp next on the dinner menu. Maybe right now fatigue dressed figures could be crouching to get a fix on their location, sights being polished for a clearer aim. This needed urgent attention. Carefully laid out plans for just such an occasion would be activated. He had his people to think of and needed to get the process moving very quickly.

  He looked back down at John. Despite the smoke and obvious clatter of gunfire, the backpacker remained oblivious. Pin considered just leaving him and getting on with the pressing matters at hand, before remembering something very important.

  “John? It looks like we might have company. I want you to go and get the girl. Find Louise and bring her here!” He then left, moving with a purposeful stride.

  Fifteen

  “What the fuck do we do now?”

  “Keep going. We run like fuck until we get to those trees.” Rusty replied, never once taking his eye off the sheltering tree-line they were moving towards.

  Whilst in full flight with high doses of adrenalin pumping freely through his system, he did well to keep his voice steady. He knew that if Mike detected any chink in his armour now the Brit would falter, putting them right in the gun sights of the desperados hacking their fellow passengers down. He looked around to spot Jean. The action was caught by Mike. He could see her still being escorted by the stocky Chinese guy. He could make out the fine hair as they ran. They looked to be clear of the immediate zone of fire, which gave him cause for some comfort.

  “We’ve got to get to her. We should have kept her closer to us back there.” The smoke and panicked run brought out a hoarse edge to Mike’s voice.

  “Just keep running Mike! She’s better off than we are, trust me there. If we don’t put some distance between us and those mother fuckers then we’re toast!”

  With that Mike geared up a notch into a full sprint, Rusty hard on his heels. Within seconds they were negotiating the first of the smaller trees, opening up to the dark forest beyond. With the cover of relative safety, Rusty was able to go over something that was troubling him. At no point during the hijack did any of their attackers attempt to rob anyone. Bandits, even ruthless Laotian ones, would be more into the simple art of fear and extortion. Their principle aim would be in taking all they could get. Just the sight of a few guns and a set of gritted teeth would be enough. Setting alight to a highway bus was too attention seeking. A statement was being made; a burning beacon for bureaucrats back in Vientiane to sit back and take note. They were sending out a violent message to the world. A burnt out bus littered with charred bodies would make gruesome viewing on the news channels. A stern reaction would surely follow, but most certainly it would be one brought from provocation and likely to include degrees of violence under the banner for equal chastisement and revenge. Those behind the hijacking show weren’t too worried about escalation.

  Coupled with this was the killing. Callous and cruel, it was also unnecessary. Why not simply fire a few rounds into the air? The average unarmed passenger would be more than happy to hand over all they had at even the slightest hint of violence. A few threats and gun pointing and the wallets would soon be handed over. There was no need to start the shooting. It added cruel gravity to the crime. Things simply didn’t add up.

  In the deeper foliage they stopped and risked a scan of carnage behind them. Camouflaged by their surroundings, they were able to take in the scene. The bus itself was perhaps 200 yards away, far enough for them to feel that they had escaped the immediate danger. Most of the flames were gone, the original petrol poured over the roof having burnt itself out. The intention was not to burn the bus to a cinder, rather to cause fear and resulting mayhem as passengers fought to escape. Then any unlucky evacuees or those slow off the mark were gunned down. The body count looked to be at least a dozen, though it was difficult to distinguish from this distance those which were dead and those who clung to the floor out of paralysed fear. Others remained seated within the bus, screaming for mercy, wishing beyond all hope that the unknown attackers would offer clemency instead of the bullet. Luckier occupants were making for the surrounding jungle canopy, their legs carrying them blindly towards the nearest trees. Mike frantically looked over to where he had last seen Jean. She was nowhere to be seen. He wanted to continue desperately searching for her, but felt a firm tug on his shoulder.

  “They’re closing us down Mikey boy! We’ve got to get deeper into these fucking trees otherwise we’re going to be target practice. Jean’s doing good. With luck she’ll still have that Chinese fellow around to watch over her. We’ll loop back for her once we can shake these assholes off our case.” Rusty was careful to keep both fear and anger from his instruction, he knew they must keep moving.

  Mike either chose to ignore Rusty, or faded him out whilst staring back at the smoke and carnage. It took a further, more vigorous prod to get Mike going.

  “I’m not fucking Mike, COME ON!”

  Half led, half staggering, Mike followed Rusty deeper into the undergrowth. A couple of stumbles on hidden roots brought his attention back. Falling down could spell total disaster if the hijackers thought about any pursuit into the jungle. Then there was the matter of spiders, snakes and a host of other venomous inhabitants in the undergrowth. There would be no serum to mercifully take away the pain and poison.

  “Keep me in sight Mike. I want in a whole lot deeper than this. Don’t worry about the snakes. With the noise we’re making they’ll be keeping well away from us. Soon we’ll have a good think about getting back to Jean. It’s too dangerous to slow just yet.”

  Focused on the backs of Rusty’s leather trainers, Mike pushed on. He was no longer surprised at how well Rusty could read him. He wasn’t sure how long they ran f
or. His shirt was soaked with sweat, though the humidity would cause this within seconds. He needed to pull up fast as Rusty came to a sudden halt just in front. He noticed that they were out of the trees, standing in a thick green plantation. What he saw rooted him to the spot.

  “Smell a load of this?” Rusty already held a bunch of the sweet scented weed. “Look at it; it’s all over the place! This isn’t natural, not even the wild plains of Morocco have this much grass naturally growing. Someone has been helping this little lot out with a hoe. Look, it’s prime stuff. Not sure if I want to hang around to meet the owners. We need to keep moving.”

  Mike continued to follow Rusty through the illicit crop. There was no green netting above, which either suggested that the plants were so plentiful that there was too large an area to marshal, or the authorities carried only token power in the remoter parts of Laos. Curiosity caused him to grab at a handful as they made their way, more a spontaneous reaction to hiking through a sea of plants that would have been beyond his imagination a day or so back. In reality, smoking a joint was far from his mind. Once their own hides were saved, they needed to get back and find Jean. As if to remind him of their position, a shot rang out. Coming from behind, it sounded like their pursuers were far from giving up on any chase. They pushed deeper into the crop. The plants were high and dense enough to provide a good camouflage screen. The further in they went, the closer they came to safety. The trick was to keep a track, ensure that they weren’t becoming lost. The cannabis clearing quickly turned to forest, then to plants, then to thick vines and vegetation. At last Rusty slowed to a halt. He raised his arm for silence. Other than some songbirds and the chorus of insects there was nothing. It felt good to be far away from the constant noise of cars and people. It felt even better to be beyond the sound of gun blasts.

  “Good! They can’t possibly have followed us this far,” Rusty said, scanning the sticky foliage for a gap. “Let’s see if we can find a loop back to the road. It’s our only chance of getting help and for finding Jean. Best not stay around here anyway; the farmers of that little lot back there might not like it.”

  “On any other day a heap of plants like that would be fucking crazy. You might grab a handful of leaves to roll in Rizla’s finest. Today it’s just fucking scary,” replied Mike. He wasn’t keen on meeting the green-fingered farmers either.

  “I know what you mean Mike. This nightmare is still a bit surreal. I can’t believe what happened back there. We’re still alive though and so is Jean.”

  “I so hope so. She has to be. Thanks again for back there, keeping my head on and that.”

  “Let’s go find her Mike.”

  Rather than going directly back, they decided on circling the cannabis crop. That way they would also avoid any possible encounter with the psychopathic bandits. A problem was that they needed to circle around on a wide loop, which pushed them deep among the trees. With no knowledge of the terrain, it made orientation very difficult. The bush was thick and much of the time it was hard going just to pass. Rusty made a deal of looking into the branches above and checking for the sun, but Mike figured much of this was about show. For once the Australian was looking vulnerable, out of his depth amongst the dwarfing trees and hanging vines. The only good news was that there were no signs of pursuit and no further sporadic bursts of gunfire. The bad news amounted to a lot more, not least the fact that Jean was still missing and they were getting lost in the jungle. Mike silently prayed that Rusty would find his confidence again soon; they both needed it.

  Just as he felt that the jungle was becoming increasingly dense and darker, the canopy creating a black tunnel around them opened out to reveal welcome glimpses of the sky. The clearing was pierced by the occasional pilai tree and pine, but was largely low level scrub and tangled vine. They waded through, happy for now that the sun burnt down on the back of their necks. Mike was surprised at how dry the plants were to the touch. He was expecting to be drenched in dew. A few spider webs brushed against his denim, but he chose to ignore these. Out-of-sight and out-of-mind was often the only philosophy. He could only hope the inhabitants were out gathering flies.

  They came across it by accident, not seeing the wreckage until they were right up on its rear. Much of the paint had gone, though the aluminium was bearing up well to the elements. A tail fin caught on Rusty’s loose shirt, alerting him to the plane’s presence. Although seemingly complete, even to the non-aviator the craft was blatantly not fly-worthy as parts of the fuselage carried gaping holes. Where these allowed, tentacles from the jungle reached through, entwining large sections. Most of the windows were cracked or broken and a wing tip looked to be missing. Green lichen and layers of grime testified that the plane had come to rest some time ago, decades even. No sane pilot would have landed a plane within a jungle clearing, not even as part of a covert drugs pick-up. The aircraft beside them must have come down, crashing into the large clearing as it lost velocity. Mud and shallow pond water present close to the fuselage must have softened much of the impact.

  Rusty was quick to jump up on the wing and inspect the cockpit. His enthusiasm proved infectious, for Mike was close behind him, almost slipping in his haste.

  “Take a look at this! Have you ever seen anything quite like it,” Rusty exclaimed, sounding more juvenile than adult. “How the bloody hell did this baby drop in? There’s got to be one hell of a story behind this. I wonder if anyone knows about this. What the hell is this plane anyway?”

  It looked like he wanted to climb in, perhaps ride in the cockpit to the sound of imaginary engines. He nearly made it, only to be stopped in his tracks by a lone voice.

  “It’s a Cessna 421 Golden Eagle. A twin propeller model, quite rare these days. I suggest that you climb off there and tell us all about yourself.”

  Mike followed Rusty’s gaze. His eyes fell on a thickset Laotian, one who was now calmly pointing the barrel of an assault rifle directly at them. Despite the menacing gun sporting authority there was still something very commanding about him. He held himself in a very assured manner, a soul oozing with confidence. In Mike’s mind he instantly fell into the select category of those not to be messed with. Unarmed the man would be nearly as dangerous. Behind the imposing figure he could make out some movement. Someone was gingerly adjusting their stance, not quite sure what to do. No longer focused on the man in front, he looked again to get a better view. Feeling a cyber-charged jolt of anticipation he looked hard again. Deep in the shadows he could make out a face that was very familiar to him.

  Sixteen

  Vig had never been at the receiving end of a hijacking before. He saw himself more as an instigator; someone who wielded the stick in violent situations. The first signal of anything going wrong was the confusion and unpleasant shock. The situation created an air of unpredictability, a professional hate of Vig’s. To succeed it was always best to be calling the shots yourself. Better still to be firing them. He didn’t like this, being on the blunt end of things. One moment he was edging closer to the farang backpackers, eager to eavesdrop their idle talk for gossip and clues, the next he was thrown forward, losing his grip on the seat.

  Neither his training nor instinct held little advantage. He had no better idea what was going on than the old lady chewing tobacco on the rear seat. As he lurched forward his elbow flew out, connecting with the side of a man’s head. He felt the dull thud of impact and knew that he had inflicted painful damage. There was little point in checking. Any apology would be worthless (even if he were feeling kind enough to pass on his concerns); their lives looked to be on the line as it was. If the guy walked from the bus with only a bruised head to worry about he would be doing well that day.

  As he fought to gain control, his initial thoughts were that the bus had taken a corner too fast. The jarring bumps appeared to explain this. He braced himself against any collision. It took the window to implode before he realised what was happening. He need
ed no prompting when bullets began bouncing around the cab. With nothing to lose he drew his Glock. Any pretence at maintaining cover evaporated; this was survival. The weight of the pistol felt reassuring, though its use against AK47 firepower was strictly limiting. To be at all effective he would need to be closer where short range accuracy would favour the pistol. Getting that close would be too exciting for his current plans. His schedule did not include scoring hit points against terrorist targets; those on the other side of the law could play the lone star. Vig simply needed an exit strategy, preferably with one or more of the farang in tow.

  His first task was to keep his own head from taking any bullets. He figured that by keeping low, below the height of the windows, he should stand some chance. His next goal in mind was to look out for the farang on the rear seat. By now panic was setting in all around him. Any avenue to the back was fully blocked by a sea of hysterical people. Even if he blindly waved his Glock at them, few would notice or even react. Warning shots would just as likely achieve nothing. Such a drastic gesture would be blatantly stupid anyway. He might as well scream over to the farang to tell them that they were being tailed. His best hope was for the farang to also keep their heads down. Once off the bus he could continue his watchful activities, for now his own ass took number one priority.

  As if to reinforce his thinking, events quickly escalated for the worse. He could hear movement on top of the bus. Without any clear vision he knew that anything could be happening, all of it bad. He knew that it was time to make a fast exit. The bus could quickly become a tin coffin. Without waiting for any gilt edged invitation, he lunged for the window. Those in his way were crudely pulled aside. He was pleased to note that the window was of the ancient sliding variety, allowing him to yank it back and produce an opening large enough to jump through. Still with the Glock drawn, he exited the bus feet first.