Once seated in the outdoor dining area of a family-style restaurant several blocks away, he placed a call to Xiaoping.
“It is done.”
“Very well.”
“Any progress on our project?”
“He claims he should be in within hours. But that’s what he said yesterday, so while promising, celebration would be premature.”
“I will report in when I have something to share.”
“Good luck.”
He disconnected and stared at the phone, a knockoff iPhone manufactured on the northern border using the schematics of the genuine article. He personally thought that the tracking of the Americans was a waste of resources, but he understood Xiaoping’s logic. It was possible that there was a hard disk or a flash drive that had survived the crash, and if so, there might be valuable data they could use to penetrate the DOD’s network. While Jiao believed it to be a wild-goose chase, he hoped that he would be proven wrong.
That, however, wasn’t how life worked in his experience, and he distrusted anything that was too easy. But he was willing to reserve judgment until he’d completed his mission and seen the wreckage with his own eyes, assuming it was ever located. Until then he would do his duty without question, and hope that the computer technician would be successful in his efforts. That days had gone by without any result wasn’t promising; but the man was a genius, and if he thought it was possible, then perhaps it was.
Jiao ordered steamed fish over rice, foregoing the customary spices with which the Thais polluted everything, and sat back waiting for the server to bring him his beer – a small reward for a small success, but one he was looking forward to after hours enduring the humid heat.
Chapter 17
Washington, D.C.
General Brad Holt strode to his car, parked in the Defense Intelligence Agency’s security lot, and after a sweep of the area, started his vehicle and pulled through the gate. Twenty minutes later he was changing from his uniform into sweats at the apartment he kept for dalliances, and ten minutes after that he was at the gym. Two other men with military bearings and the clipped hair of career officers sat in the dressing room. After a hard look from Holt, they followed him onto the outdoor terrace, where several tables and chairs awaited them, the area empty.
“All right. Let’s make this quick. You’re both up to speed with the train wreck in Thailand, correct?” Holt asked.
The shorter of the men, Colonel Sam Daniels, nodded. “Our sources at the CIA have no idea what went wrong. This came out of left field.”
“They couldn’t find their asses with both hands,” growled the third officer, Major Henry Lorre.
“Be that as it may, we have to assume they aren’t the only ones on the game board now. Until proven otherwise, we have to proceed as though there are unidentified hostiles,” Holt said.
“Right, but it’s not our play. What can we do differently?”
All three men were members of the Department of Defense covert operations group: the Defense Clandestine Services, responsible for, among other things, the military’s black ops and wet work – assassinations, torture, kidnappings, terrorist attacks against unfriendly regimes. While officially the group didn’t exist, the reality was that the CIA often acted in its own best interests, for motives known only to its leaders, and the DOD sometimes needed to employ tactics that, if Congress had been aware of them, would have been shut down and their planners jailed. Their recently aborted mission in Pakistan was a classic example: word of it had been leaked online by a website that delighted in breaking top-secret information – information that in this case could have only come from one place – the DOD’s own servers.
“I know we said we’d stay out of this one, but I think the situation has escalated to the point where we can’t take a passive role anymore. We need to send our own people in.”
“I thought the idea was to keep it deniable.”
“That hasn’t changed.”
“I disagree. My vote is to watch and wait. We try to launch a concurrent effort, and it could blow up in our faces,” Daniels said.
Holt considered the input. “What do you think, Henry?”
“Much as I’m inclined to want to take control, I don’t see anything we can do that’s not already being done. We have to trust that if there’s something to find, the supposed experts will find it. Ferrying in a bunch of commandos is unlikely to end well, or we would have already done it.”
“So we do nothing? That’s the consensus?” Holt asked.
Both his subordinates nodded. Holt hated that answer, but knew in his gut it was the right one, even if his instinct was to commission outside contractors to go in. The DOD often hired third-party organizations to carry out more sensitive missions, especially when it wanted deniability, which was essential in this instance. But Holt would go with his group’s advice – for now.
The men went back inside, where Holt would pump iron for an hour while the others returned to their offices. Holt moved out onto the floor without saying anything more to them, selected a chest press, and pegged the weights at the maximum. Even at fifty-three he was built like a bear and had the strength of two younger men, and he was fighting the inevitable ravages of time every step of the way.
He did three sets of twenty reps and moved to the next machine in his circuit, his mind working over the problem he was facing. What should have been straightforward had turned into a downed plane with a high-profile civilian involved. And now the CIA man on site had been taken out. If it could get any worse, he couldn’t see how.
After a career in the military, Holt was a realist, under no illusions about how things worked or anyone’s competence. He had more ugly secrets swirling around in his head than anyone should, but that was the life he’d chosen. Someone had to make the tough decisions – weigh the unthinkable and authorize the unmentionable. It went with the program. Civilians didn’t understand it, and he didn’t expect them to. Ignorance was bliss, and it was better for everyone if they focused on buying more unnecessary crap and voting for the talking heads of the professional liars who wrote their scripts. Holt had nothing but contempt for the population he was charged with protecting, and he did so without expecting their thanks. That they would have hated him for what he did in their name was immaterial. They were fat, dumb children, to be treated as such.
Holt moved to the barbell area and began his curls, his arms burning from lactic acid rushing to the damaged muscles. He forced himself to continue through the pain. That which didn’t kill him made him stronger, and he would approach this latest challenge like he did all others – fighting. The hearings had been a major irritant, but the DOD had been able to stonewall the politicians sufficiently so that no irreparable damage was done.
But the situation in Laos was a wild card that bore watching. If there was damaging material that had survived the crash, and it fell into the wrong hands…
Holt shook off the anxiety that seared through his stomach and moved to the pull-up bars, where he would do a hundred, as he had every other day for the last thirty-something years. As he began his routine, he comforted himself with the thought that exercising restraint when there were as many unknowns as they faced was often more effective than going in with guns a-blazing.
That said, he would be monitoring the CIA-sponsored group’s progress with interest, and planned to make a few calls once he was finished that would ready a crisis team from one of his military contractors and get it into position in Thailand.
“Just in case,” Holt said to himself. “Better safe than sorry.”
Chapter 18
Chiang Rai, Thailand
Dawn broke over the mountains east of Chiang Rai, painting the sky with a neon display of mango and pink, high streaks of clouds glowing as the sun rose. Uncle Pete sat in the front of a van with faded taxi markers on its doors, and Allie, Drake, and Spencer occupied the rear bench seat. The shabby vehicle bounced along a rutted road to the old airport, long out of use for an
ything but occasional charter flights, and the jumping-off point for their helicopter ride.
They rolled through an open gateway whose rusting barrier had been pushed to the side, and proceeded to where an ancient Bell 206B helicopter waited on the cracked pad, its mottled green paint peeling in spots. The logo of Thai Fantasy Air on its side looked as though a child had drawn it using crayons in the dark. Spencer looked skeptically at the aircraft and addressed Uncle Pete. “Are you frigging kidding me?” he demanded.
“It top shelf helicopter. Finest kind in area. Pilot famous,” Uncle Pete said, but his eyes were glued to the aircraft, and the doubt in his tone betrayed his words.
“That thing’s a relic.”
“Means it work good for years.”
“Uncle Pete, it’s older than I am,” Spencer fired back.
“You still got plenty good game, right? Same with helo.”
The cab driver coasted to a stop and they climbed out. A middle-aged Thai man with a completely bald head approached, his mirrored aviator glasses winking in the strengthening sunlight. Uncle Pete said something in Thai and the man laughed good-naturedly before turning to eye Allie in a way that gave her the creeps.
“Welcome, welcome. I’m Daeng. Nice to meet you,” the man said, offering a courteous wai to the four of them.
Daeng’s English was orders of magnitude better than Uncle Pete’s. He explained the grid approach they would use for the search, pointing to a map he’d ceremoniously unfurled. Each quadrant would receive a thorough inspection at a slow hover. When he was through with his orientation talk, he drew himself up. “Any questions?”
Spencer nodded. “I notice you avoided the section by the Myanmar border. Why?”
“Oh, we don’t want to go there,” Daeng explained. “That’s controlled by the Shan State Army. They’re as likely to take potshots as they are to ignore us. They have serious weaponry – .50-caliber machine guns, RPGs, you name it.”
“But that’s Myanmar. Isn’t it controlled by the military?” Drake asked.
“No. There are a number of groups that operate there, each more dangerous than the other. You have the drug gangs, the Shan State, rogue militia, factions of the Myanmar Army that deserted or are working their own schemes, the works. All armed to the teeth.”
Allie looked from Spencer to Drake. “Nobody mentioned that in Malibu,” she said.
“It appears our friends might have left something out,” Drake acknowledged. “Let’s hope there’s nothing more they forgot to tell us.”
“So what good does the permit do us?” Spencer asked. “I thought it was essential to overfly that area. It sounds like we’re flying into a combat zone.”
“Well, my helo’s known to most of them, so we’ll be okay as long as we don’t venture into this area,” Daeng said, tapping his finger on the map. “We can work around it. I can get us high enough so we should be able to see across it.”
“What’s the point, if we can’t go in to verify what we’re seeing?”
“Don’t worry. I guide on ground,” Uncle Pete said.
“Wait. If you know the territory, you knew about all the armed groups. Why didn’t you say anything?” Allie demanded.
Uncle Pete shrugged. “None of my business. I following orders. Loyal ant, Uncle Pete.”
“How dangerous is it?” Drake asked Daeng.
“Since the U.S. invaded Afghanistan, heroin production there went from nothing to more than the total world demand, so the groups here in the triangle aren’t growing nearly as many poppies as they used to. The drug gangs and the rebel armies have shifted to methamphetamine production, which is way cheaper and easier to deal with. So we’re not in that much danger of accidentally overflying a poppy field, which might provoke an armed response.” Daeng paused. “But that’s still not a complete guarantee that someone doesn’t take a shot at us.”
Allie’s eyes widened and she glared at Drake. “What did you get us into?”
Daeng patted the side of the aircraft. “The helo’s got an inch of steel plate on the underside. Welded it myself. It’ll stop most rounds, so it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“How about the glass?” Drake asked.
“Bulletproof glass is too expensive. But I have yet to get shot.”
“Then why the steel?” Spencer asked.
“Insurance. It cuts down on the payload I can haul, but it’s like a seat belt – it’s annoying until you need it, and then you’re grateful.”
“Your English is very good,” Allie said.
“My father was American. GI. So I grew up bilingual until he left us when I was ten.”
“I…I’m sorry,” Allie said softly.
“Oh, don’t be. If you knew my mother, who I love like my own blood, you’d think he was a saint for sticking it out that long. I would have been gone years before.”
Spencer eyed the map. “Looks like a lot of the area they could have gone down in is on the west side of the Mekong River. In Myanmar. How do we search that section?”
“Very carefully.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You asked,” Daeng said with a shrug. “Like I said, there’s no other way but to try to stay high enough so we’re not in easy range. But look at the bright side – at least they don’t have anti-aircraft guns or fighter planes.”
“Sky’s filled with silver linings,” Drake muttered.
Spencer moved to the helicopter. “What year is this thing?”
“1977. A good year.”
“Not for music,” Spencer said. “Who maintains it?”
“I’ve got a guy. Ex-serviceman. Pretty good. It’s been trouble-free, for the most part.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Thai air force. They retired her when she turned twenty-five.”
“How many hours have you clocked?” Spencer drilled.
Daeng smiled and removed his glasses. His eyes held no trace of humor. “Your people vetted me. They felt I was more than qualified. You want to look for someone else who’ll fly that area, knock yourself out. I could use the extra sleep. Just say the word.”
“He top good pilot,” Uncle Pete declared enthusiastically, as though his pronouncement sealed the deal.
Spencer shook his head and patted the duffle. “At least we’ve got something to shoot back with, if it comes to that.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t. Nobody wants to start a war. Bad for business. I’m just telling you the risks, is all,” Daeng said. He stared at Spencer for a long beat. “We through with the audition?”
Spencer nodded. “Looks like it. How long will it take to make it to the first quadrant?”
“Maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes.” Daeng checked his watch. “Let’s saddle up. Time’s a-wasting. We’ll burn an hour getting back and fueling up, so the sooner we’re in the air, the more territory we can cover.”
They followed him to the helicopter and climbed in. Drake wrinkled his nose as he tossed his backpack onto the rear compartment floor and took one of the two front seats. “It smells like rot.”
“Don’t forget perspiration. I’m definitely getting sweat,” Allie added from the bench seat in the passenger area. She laid her backpack next to Drake’s and strapped in. “This is gross.”
Daeng took the pilot’s seat and slipped on a headset, and within two minutes they were rising into the air, the cabin trembling like a hobo with delirium tremens. Drake looked back at them over his shoulder with a concerned expression.
Daeng laughed when he caught Drake’s discomfiture. “She’ll smooth out soon. Just temperamental in her old age.”
“Very reassuring,” Spencer said as he unzipped the duffle and removed one of the AKMs.
Allie grimaced. “You really think we’ll need those?”
“You remember how to work yours, right?” he asked, handing her one of the H&Ks after slapping a magazine into place. She looked at the fire selector switch and verified it was in the safe position, and nodded.
Spencer eyed Uncle Pete. “You know how to use one of these?” he asked, patting the AKM.
Uncle Pete nodded solemnly. “Like ride bicycle.”
“Don’t shoot our feet off,” Spencer warned, and handed him the other Kalashnikov.
The angle of the Bell changed, and soon they were flying over banana fields, which transitioned into jungle as they traveled north. When they reached the starting point for the first quadrant, Spencer tapped Daeng on the shoulder. “Maybe we should start at the northern edge of their last known position?”
“Bad idea. I want to try to avoid the Myanmar side as long as possible,” Daeng called over the sound of the turbine.
Spencer sat back as the helicopter slowed to a crawl. The altimeter read twenty-five hundred feet – which, given the elevations, put them no more than eight hundred feet off the jungle floor. Drake raised his binoculars to his eyes and began searching the area. Allie and Spencer joined him, peering through the cloudy glass as the chopper droned forward.
“We’re looking for anything that might be a crashed plane – wreckage, a furrow in the canopy as it crashed, whatever. Call out if you spot anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem,” Spencer said.
The first quadrant took four hours to cover, after which they agreed to try for another two hours and then return for fuel and a quick lunch. By the time they were back on the ground, they were more than ready to stretch their legs. Daeng walked over to a waiting fuel truck as Uncle Pete called the taxi driver they’d used to get there. Ten minutes later they were on the way to a local restaurant the driver assured them was the best in all Thailand, oblivious to Drake’s and Allie’s skeptical frowns.
The second half of the day went very much like the first, and other than several remote villages and an occasional hill tribesman on one of the innumerable trails, they didn’t see anything promising. By the time they called it a day, the magnitude of their task was obvious, and they were quiet and thoughtful as they returned to Chiang Rai, grateful for the breeze through the half-open windows that passed for air-conditioning in the ancient helicopter, though it was still woefully inadequate under the relentless blaze of the tropical sun.
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