by Andy Maslen
“Fire in the hole,” he murmured.
And squeezed the trigger.
18
The Third Mine
The 5.56mm round left the muzzle with a loud crack. The noise fused with the boom as the mine exploded into a single percussive bang that left Gabriel’s ears ringing. He kept his head down, expecting razor-sharp stone chips, or pieces the size of cricket balls, to come spinning towards him. But apart from a light pattering of pea-sized fragments hitting the ground, the mine had done no damage.
He got to his feet and slung the M16 across his back. He gave the daysack to Eli so he’d be able to get to the rifle quickly if he needed to. He braced himself and held his hand out to Eli. She grasped it and pulled herself to her feet. He noticed how she favoured her left leg and hoped she’d manage the long walk back to the pickup.
“Nice shooting, kid,” she said.
He smiled.
“Thanks. How are you feeling. Knee OK?”
“I’ve been better, but I can do this. Come on.”
They arranged themselves so that Eli was to Gabriel’s left, with her injured leg between them. She hooked her right arm around his shoulder and held him tightly .
He took a step and Eli hopped along beside him. He saw her wince. But there was nothing to be done. He didn’t want to give her any more painkillers, wasn’t even sure they’d do much good. Within seconds the place where their bodies touched was soaking wet. Eli sighed deeply.
“Fucking hell, Wolfe, I’m sorry I got you into this mess.”
He took another step, and helped her match him, holding her round the waist.
“You didn’t. Nobody did. Except possibly Win Yah. Shit happens, you know that. We both knew when we signed up for The Department.”
Eli grunted out a laugh as she took another halting step.
“Ha! What does he call us? ‘My little band of cutthroats’?”
“Yeah, all we need’re spotted bandannas round our heads and big gold earrings for the compete pirate look.”
It was a lame joke. Barely even qualifying. But it was enough. Eli cracked a smile and they took a few more steps.
They emerged from the courtyard onto the paved path leading away from the temple and back through the forest to the road, the pickup, and salvation. Gabriel was starting to imagine the drive back to the guest house, how he’d tease Eli about being laid low by a cut on her knee.
“Hardly battlefield trauma, was it?” he’d ask. They’d get back to safety and he’d redress her wound, take a look at the burns on her leg, which he realised he hadn’t even asked about, then call a doctor. In fact he’d call his boss at The Department. Maybe Don Webster had a contact in Siem Reap who could recommend someone reliable. A couple of ice-cold beers, and maybe a dip in the huge rectangular swimming hole.
Then his toe caught under a root curving up out of the red earth, making him stumble. His left knee collided with Eli’s right. Her yell of pain set a covey of birds clattering out of a nearby banana palm, hooting in alarm. Their volume was nothing compared to the shouted stream of oaths issuing from Eli’s stretched mouth .
“Fucking HELL, Wolfe, you cunt on a stick, that fucking hurt!”
He started to apologise but the violence of her cursing made him laugh. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, hurriedly, before the tough Israeli took her anger out on him. “It was an accident.”
He did his best to stifle his laughter but he was powerless. Her outraged expression only made matters worse and it was all he could do to stay standing and not drop her on her arse in the dirt. That image set him off again, and it was only the resounding slap Eli delivered to his cheek that startled him into silence.
“First of all, as I said, that fucking hurt, you idiot. Second of all, shut up! There might be more of Win Yah’s men still out here.”
He sighed out a breath. Shook his head, sending a few droplets of sweat flying to each side.
“Sorry. Again. But I think we’re OK. I’ve been checking around us. I haven’t seen or heard a thing. I got two of them and you said a leopard took a third. If there were others, I think they’re retreated to regroup. Or just get the fuck away from here. I mean, it hasn’t exactly been lucky for them, has it?”
Eli shrugged her shoulders, clearly not mollified.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll tell you one thing.”
“What?”
“If you hit my knee again I’ll leave you here with them. You can be kitty’s next meal.”
Gabriel saluted with his free hand.
“Understood. Boss.”
“Good. That’s better. Now can we please get the fuck out of here? I want a bath, something to eat, a doctor, and a beer. Not necessarily in that order.”
They started off again, the world’s worst entrants in the three-legged race.
“I’m glad you mentioned the bath,” Gabriel said.
“Why? ”
“Let’s just say you’re a little more fragrant than usual.”
“You cheeky bastard! Are you saying I stink? I don’t know if you’ve caught a whiff of your own manly aroma recently. It could fell a horse.”
19
Pretty as a Fallen Mango
They bantered their way along the path, falling into a clumsy but serviceable rhythm: step, grip-and-lift, swing, brace, grip, step. Gabriel could feel Eli’s hot skin under her shirt but it was more the heat from the sun than an internal fire. Her face was red with the exertion but her eyes were clear and the spots of dangerously high colour on her cheeks had disappeared.
Coming round a curve in the track, Eli stiffened, bringing Gabriel to a stop.
“What the fuck’s that?” she asked pointing at a bloody hunk of flesh wedged into a forked branch ten feet above their heads.
“That’s the remains of the cow I used to feed the leopard. I startled it off the path and it stepped on a landmine.”
“Better it than you, I suppose.”
“Yeah, or a kid.”
“How many mines did you say there were in Cambodia?”
Gabriel thought back to his conversations with Lina Ly, a Cambodian journalist, and Visna Chey, the hardworking director of the charity Tom Boh – Big Brother. Both had helped Gabriel in his quest to avenge the murder of his friend, Vinnie Calder. They had patiently explained to Gabriel the horrific legacy of three decades of war.
“According to the people I spoke to there are five or six million still buried here. Nobody made any maps, even though that’s part of the Law of War—”
“Because obviously they were all massively concerned about observing the Geneva Conventions.”
“So there’s one landmine for every three people in Cambodia. Then you’ve got the unexploded ordnance. Anywhere from two to six million UXOs lying around like fallen mangoes, waiting for a kid to pick one up or an adult to stand on one or disturb it with a plough. All courtesy of those fine upstanding humanitarians and cluster bombing fans, Henry Kissinger and Richard Nixon.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Me? No, not bitter. But Eli, when we were fighting in uniform, we had to follow the rules, didn’t we? We didn’t go around shooting civilians, or prisoners. And if there was even a whiff of suspicion, well, just look at Iraq and Afghanistan. Scarcely a day goes by without some poor sod being hauled up before the judge on a charge dug up by a bloody lawyer. But all the time, the politicians are doing whatever the fuck they like. They –”
“Kissinger and Nixon?”
“Yes. Nixon wanted to cut off the North Vietnamese Army’s supply lines down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He practically soaked the whole of Vietnam with Agent Orange and it wasn’t working so he asked Kissinger. And Kissinger said, ‘OK, Mr President, sir, what I propose is this. We’ll just carpet-bomb Cambodia with cluster munitions, even though it’s neutral. That ought to do it. Hey! We should mine it too. We could even paint some in pretty colours so kids pick them up to play with’.”
Eli held her hands out in front of her, clearly willing to risk a fall if she could turn off Gabriel’s rant.
“OK, OK, whoa there, soldier. I get it. Politicians, bad; honest grunts, good. But we’re helping put things right here, aren’t we?”
Then she stopped talking .
“It’s OK,” Gabriel said. “You were going to say till you fucked it up, weren’t you?”
“Of course! Because it’s true. Win Yah should be walking around with a bullet in his brain, but –” She caught Gabriel’s look. And smiled, for which he was grateful. “You know what I mean. I missed the shot. That’s it.”
“So the job’s not finished. We stay until it is, OK? But first, and sorry for the soapbox bit just then, we get back to the guest house and get your knee seen to. I meant to ask, how bad are the burns?”
Eli shrugged.
“They hurt, but not as much as the knee. Just superficial, I hope. Or else, the knee is such a fucking wreck that it’s drowning out third-degree burns.”
“And on that hopeful note, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get going again.”
20
Leadership
Win Yah settled himself behind the Jeep’s skinny steering wheel. He started the engine, shoved the gear stick into first, and floored the throttle, sending a cloud of red dust whirling high into the trees behind him. On the drive back to camp he rehearsed the speech he would have to give to explain his arrival minus his second-in-command and two of his men.
He was the undisputed boss of the gang he’d named “April 17”, from the date the Khmer Rouge took Phnom Penh. But in the drugs and extortion trade in this part of northern Cambodia, “undisputed” was a nuanced term. It might mean “commanding so much respect that none of your loyal foot soldiers would even challenge your choice of music for a barbecue”. Or it might mean, “a brutal bully feared by your men only so long as they reckoned there was no stronger candidate to exercise discipline and carry out punishments”. He had a pretty shrewd idea which definition fitted him.
By the time he roared into camp, sliding the ancient American all-wheel-drive to a stop outside his hut, he had his speech memorised.
Men came running, gathering in front of the Jeep to hear what had happened. Some clutched bottles of Cambodia or Angkor beer. One or two were smoking joints. A handful were carrying their AKs. All eyes were on him. He stood up on the bonnet.
“The woman is dead. We tracked her to Jayon Peah temple. She had overpowered Samang and stolen his weapon. Lon Sen wounded her and I killed her myself with this.”
He held up his machete, then waited for the cheering and clapping to subside.
“But she was not alone. She had radioed for reinforcements. The Americans. CIA. She called in a helicopter. They were too late to save her. Her head was rolling in the dirt when they arrived. But Lon Sen and your brothers Jey and Dalat were killed. Mown down by a CIA machinegunner who didn’t even have the courage to leave the safety of his aircraft.”
A barrage of questions erupted. Men were shouting each other down in their efforts to be heard. This was going better than he had expected. He patted the air in front of him and pointed to one of his more loyal soldiers, like he’d seen the Prime Minister’s media adviser do at televised press conferences.
“Kiri, what is your question?”
“You are not hurt?”
Win Yah shook his head.
“I was in a cave, dealing with the woman. I was able to return fire without exposing myself to danger. I hit the helicopter many times with my AK, but the damage was done and the Americans fled as soon as I started shooting.”
The men muttered among themselves, but Win Yah sensed that he retained control. Now for his killshot.
“It’s pay day. Get your vehicles. Go into town and find some beer. And some women.”
The men cheered, apparently happy to forget their fallen comrades if money, sex and alcohol were on offer. Happy like we used to be , Win Yah mused. In the good old days .
21
The Road Home
Five miles to the east, Gabriel and Eli stumbled out of a clearing onto the track where Gabriel had left the Ranger. For the past five minutes he’d been fighting down feelings of anxiety about the truck. What if it had been stolen? What if someone had slashed the tyres? What if a tree had fallen across it? The fact that he hadn’t seen a soul, apart from Win Yah’s men, in this part of the country for days did nothing to allay his fears. Nor did the entire absence of trees for a good fifty feet in every direction around the truck.
So it was with a sigh of relief that he nodded at it and spoke.
“Your ride, Milady. America’s finest. Four-wheel drive, leather upholstery and AC so cold you’ll be wishing you’d packed a sweater.”
Eli had been silent for the last few hundred yards and he’d stolen glances at her to see how she was doing, Despite his best attempts to entertain and distract her with stories, jokes and observations about the local flora and fauna, she’d been terse, bordering on non-responsive.
“Just get me in it,” she said through gritted teeth.
Holding her tightly round the waist with his left arm, he retrieved the keys from his pocket and blipped the fob. The door locks opened with muffled clunks and he pulled open the passenger door.
“Here we go. Watch the leg,” he said, unnecessarily, as Eli had her gaze fixed firmly on her right knee.
Together, they pushed, pulled, lifted and turned Eli until her bottom made contact with the soft, padded seat. She pulled her right leg in, using both hands to lift and simultaneously protect the swollen joint.
“Oh, fuck that’s better,” she said, leaning back against the head rest.
Gabriel ran round the front of the truck and climbed in next to her. Offering up a silent prayer, he twisted the key in the ignition, and doubled it when the big V8 caught on the first turn of the starter motor. He cranked the air conditioning dial up to MAX and opened the windows until the fans stopped blowing superheated air out through the vents. Once the air flooding into the cabin was cold, he buzzed the windows closed, selected Drive and manoeuvred the Ranger until he had it facing back the way he’d driven.
“Home, James,” he said, patting Eli on her good leg, and accelerated down the dusty red track.
Once he reached the relatively high quality main road, Gabriel put his foot down. At some point on the drive through the forest, Eli had fallen asleep, or had passed out. Whether from heat exhaustion, dehydration, the infection, or a combination of all three, he had no idea. But what he did know was that she needed medical attention. He glanced to his left. Her face was still red, even though the AC had filled the Ranger’s cab with air cold enough to raise goose pimples on Gabriel’s forearms. Outside the cab, the sky was a sapphire dome that stretched to the horizon in every direction.
To the left, the land was flat, and planted with rows of fruit bushes and banana palms. As soon as CMAC, the Cambodian Mine Action Centre, cleared land or declared it mine and UXO-free, local people would rush to plant it and begin farming. Regaining the means to support themselves was one of the biggest benefits of demining. That and the freedom from the fear that a walk down a forest path could end up with their losing a limb. To the right, the forest loomed, almost up to the roadside, a thick tangle of palms, deciduous trees and low-growing scrub.
He returned his gaze to the front, and swore.
“For fuck’s sake, no! You have to be joking.”
22
Checkpoint
Three hundred yards ahead, a pickup not dissimilar to his own had been parked diagonally across the road. Standing in the truckbed were two men. They held AK-47s across their skinny chests and wore aviator-style shades whose gold-coloured frames winked in the sunlight. He slowed down as much as he dared without arousing suspicion and looked across at Eli. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was ragged. The M16 rested between her knees.
On the back seat lay the Makarovs they’d collected from the dead ba
ndits and Eli had her right hand resting on the butt of the Sig, which she’d wedged between her thighs. No way would these unofficial toll collectors be willing to let them pass with this amount of firepower on display, however many dollar bills he thrust into their grasping hands.
The men had been thorough in their preparation. On one side of the road, a water-filled ditch crept to within a foot of the tarmac. On the other, a fat-trunked coconut palm had fallen or been dragged to a matching position. No chance for even the most daring of drivers to skirt the impromptu roadblock.
The distance between the trucks had closed to just one hundred yards when Gabriel made his decision. Letting his right hand slide down and then off the wheel, he took the Sig from Eli’s unresisting grip. With twenty yards to go, he stepped on the brake pedal and brought the truck to a stop.
Keeping his foot pressed down hard on the brake, and breathing slowly and deeply though his nose, he waited. He snaked his left arm over the backrest and closed his fingers on the butt of one of the Makarovs, then slid it back. Tucking the barrels of both pistols under his thighs, he thumbed the buttons to lower the windows. The two men in the truck bed were beckoning him to come towards them. He did nothing. They aimed their AKs at the windscreen and started shouting in Khmer. He did nothing.
“If you want my money, boys, you’re going to have to come and get it,” he murmured.
Eventually, the two men shouldered their AKs and climbed down from the truck bed. They sauntered towards Gabriel, faces grim behind the sunglasses. He waited for them, arms folded, pistols out of sight in his armpits, noting the relaxed postures of the two men as they reached the front of his truck. You’re used to this, aren’t you? Is this a revenue stream for you? Do you wait for the tourist coaches to make a real killing? All those fat wallets and Rolexes?