by Travis Stone
Chaske's doubt peaked.
Her look was intense. 'I know you don't believe, but numbers are important to me. Start to look for re-occurring numbers in your life, Chaske - they are there to guide you.'
Chaske was staring at her scribble: the number 106 stood out - his authenticator code was: Lima 1067.
I'm as crazy as she is, he thought.
Chaske unfolded a topographical map on the floor. 'Where are they being held?'
Cam put her slender finger on the map. 'Here.'
He knew some of the area from previous missions: the region was not garden-variety jungle, but a steep, inhospitable expanse of rain-forest, through which, dangerous threads of the Ho Chi Minh Trail passed.
He pointed to a spot a few miles south of Cam's fingertip. 'We fly to here,' he said. 'We can't land - it's too dense. We rope down.' He felt the rush that comes with planning a mission into enemy territory.
Cam nodded.
'Golota will land the chopper here.' He pointed to a remote riverbed a few miles west. Once we have Amai and Danny, we get them back to the chopper, and fly out.'
He looked into her face.
She said: 'I don't feel it will happen that way.'
Neither did he.
47
Tan Son Nhut AFB
LZ-40
10°48'41"N 106°39'49"E
Chaske swung the jeep into the Air America compound.
At 0530, high air pressure held the JP-4 fumes close to the ground. The oily taste of kerosene collected in the tread of Chaske's tongue, and seeped down his throat. He scraped his tongue against his front teeth. He was anxious to get airborne.
Most of the big hangars were lit up and buzzing with activity. A procession of F-4 Phantoms whined slowly along a taxiway; an AC-130 with a smoking engine landed and turned sharply off the active toward them, a fire-tender rushing to intercept.
The jeep's headlights revealed a figure beside the hangar, moving as if trying to keep warm despite the eighty-degree air temperature. It was Jim Hurley.
Chaske parked the jeep, slung the military issue cram-sack with Jim's fifty-thousand inside, and said to Cam: 'Let's go.'
Without speaking, Jim took them through a side-door, and into the hangar's dark, voluminous interior. Jim flicked switches and the bright hangar lights came on and an electric chain-drive began peeling back the main aircraft doors, letting a pinkish haze leak in from the tarmac.
'Follow me,' Jim said.
Chaske followed him behind the tail of a Fairchild C-123 Provider, with the innards of its port engine spread on the oil-stained concrete. Cam kept close behind him. The smell of hydraulic fluid, machine parts, and kerosene worked into the space behind Chaske's eyes.
I hope I'm doing the right thing.
They stooped under the trailing edge of the C-123's portside wing, and Chaske saw the bubble-canopied Cayuse, crouching like a grasshopper at the hangar entrance. It was almost new, and an M-134 mini-gun was bolted to its starboard skid.
He's outdone himself-
'Take your eyes off that,' Jim said. 'This is your machine over here.'
Behind the new Cayuse, a second OH-6 sat on a wheeled dolly.
Chaske took-in second machine's battered bodywork.
'She's a bit rough round the edges,' Jim said. 'But it'll serve your purpose. She's got the modified fuel tank that'll give you the extra range you need. Draw back is you'll be right on the weight limit for take off. Spare fuel cans for the return leg are in the luggage compartments - you listening?'
Chaske nodded and ran his hand over the dented skin, which had been brush painted it in flat-olive-drab. A large caliber slug was embedded in the plexi-glass bubble.
'Take it or leave it, pal.' Jim said. 'Be quick. I've got other business.'
Chaske tossed Jim the cram-sack. Jim caught it, smirked, and put the bag down. Jim then unfolded a map on the hangar floor. 'Don't loose this map, Chaske; or you're dead.'
Chaske thought: Where the hell is Golota?
The Phantoms' roar filled the hangar as they took-off two at a time.
Jim tapped the map. 'Follow the marked flight routes exactly, and you stand the best chance of survival.'
Chaske's gut tightened.
'Open the aux fuel valve before the main tank hits reserve. Squawk is one-zero-six point four. Your call-sign is Charlie-Tango-One-Niner. Make sure you clear yourself into - and out of - all airspace, or you will be shot down. Home-plate is Da Nang, okay. You won't have enough fuel to make detours. Approach charts for Da Nang are in the folder in front. You got all that?'
Chaske's eye followed the zigzagging red ink that indicated the flight-path, and he thought: What the hell am I doing? 'Yeah, got it, Jim.'
Jim scowled. 'Where's your pilot?'
Chaske looked back to the C-123, expecting Golota to come under its wing at any second.
Where the hell is he?
'Who is your pilot?'
'A pilot,' Chaske said. 'That's all you need to know.'
'Bullshit. That's my Goddamn machine.'
Chaske raised his hands. 'John Golota.'
Jim's head went up. 'He hasn't flown for months.'
'He's current on the Cayuse.'
Jim nodded. 'Tell that cowboy to look after my girl.' Then he turned and spoke over his shoulder: 'Nice doin' business with you, Chaske.' Jim got halfway across the hangar and stopped. He held up the duffel bag. 'If it's not all there-'
'The money's all there,' Chaske said. 'I do my business above board.'
Jim left.
Chaske and Cam started loading the Cayuse.
'Will he come?' Cam said.
Chaske heard footsteps, and a human shadow stretched out from under the C-123. Golota stalked across the hangar toward them. Chaske felt a rush of relief.
Golota smoothed his spiked hair, glared at Cam, and said: 'What the fuck are you lookin' at?' Then he looked around theatrically. 'Where's the ginger ninja? I thought he'd be on this?'
'Blue couldn't make it-'
'Knows a bullshit mission when he sees one.' Golota pushed past Cam and looked inside the Cayuse, which had been stripped back to metal. 'You expect me to fly this bucket of shit?'
'That's what I'm paying you for.'
Golota eyed Cam. 'This the gook psychic?' He laughed. 'You're a fucking madman Thorn. This is fucked up.' He shook his head. 'I'm gunna need another grand.'
'We agreed-'
Golota turned and walked away.
Chaske thought: I can't let him go.
'Okay John,' Chaske called after him. 'That's all I've got.'
Golota came back. 'Okay, Thorn-'
'Let's just get airborne,' Chaske said.
Golota climbed into the pilot's seat and began moving the controls. 'Fucking bullet in the glass.'
Chaske wondered if Golota was wired. After this mission, Chaske planned to go to the Station-Chief and have Golota removed from the unit; but right know he needed him more than anything.
Golota got out and began an external check. Chaske heard the clacking of metal clips as Golota lifted the various cowlings to inspect the working parts. Golota gave the thumbs-up, and they pushed the Cayuse onto the apron, which glinted with psychedelic oil slicks, lit up by the rising sun.
Chaske climbed in and put on his headset. Golota got in beside him, located the APU, and ignited the starter. Behind them, the turbine began whining like a blocked vacuum cleaner; the pitch increasing steadily as the engine came to life.
Cam looked pale, and sat silently against the rear bulkhead. The turbine hit its pitch and Chaske saw the gauges climb into the green. Through the headset, he heard Golota contact the tower and receive clearance to takeoff one-eight-zero degrees.
Golota slowly throttled up and the Cayuse began to shake.
Okay, Chaske thought. Let's go. Then he was struck by pure shock. A face appeared at the plexi-glass. It was Blue.
Blue yelled above the whine: 'Any room for an old cobber?'
Chaske beame
d. 'You bloody bet, mate.'
Golota said: 'Fucking pansies.'
Blue got into the back. 'Gidday. Who're you?'
Chaske could smell Blue's alcoholic breath over the kero. 'Blue, meet Cam,' he said. 'What about your parents? It meant a lot to you.'
Blue showed no emotion. 'There'll be another time.'
Golota took the turbine to full power and the rotors whirred overhead. The chopper lifted off, tilted forward, and fishtailed nose-down across the active-runway.
Chaske heard the female air-traffic-controller say: 'Charlie-Tango-One-Niner. Traffic bearing one-zero-six is Stratofortress.'
They cleared Tan Son Nhut's perimeter and banked North-West, gaining altitude in steps.
Chaske let out a long, slow breath. A lot had come together quickly: The rest was up to the Cam.
48
The baby stopped crying and the door opened.
Danny pulled back in anticipation of kicking boots. Something was shoved into the hole and the door pushed quickly shut.
The bolt crunched home and all of Danny's fears amplified into pure terror. There was something in his cell - and it wasn't human.
What the fuck is it?
Danny began to hyperventilate.
The creature crawled onto his legs; its fur bristly and course; its breathing heavy. Danny drew himself into a fetal position against the back wall, but the animal moved with him. He could taste its hot, stale breath, and he could feel its claws on his thighs. It yawned and nestled into his groin.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Danny tried desperately to stay still, hoping that whoever put the creature in his hole would come and take it out.
The high-wattage bulb snapped on. The heavy darkness became bright light. He looked into the snarling set of fangs, wrapped in pale pink gums.
Baboon!
The baboon slammed into the roof and lashed out with its front claws. Then it fell back, bounced off the door, and came forward again.
Danny covered his face with his elbows and knew that he would die - ripped to pieces by a wild animal, in an underground tomb, hundreds-of-miles from anywhere.
Why did Amai do this to me?
* * *
Amai felt Triet's fingers lock into her hair.
Face down, she was dragged from her from her cell and into the main tunnel. Triet released her and turned on the single electric light.
Amai held her breath to listen. She could hear an animal and a man, screaming as though locked in mortal combat.
Baboon, she thought.
Triet laughed. 'He is so weak. What did you see in him?'
She realized the screaming was Danny's, and her stomach dropped. Triet was torturing him, and her torment she knew, would be to listen; to feel his pain; to imagine his horror; and be powerless to stop it.
Amai knew what Triet had done. She had heard of this kind of torture; it was unusually cruel and normally reserved for hated political prisoners.
He's hurting him to hurt me, she thought.
She could taste her tears, and she could hear herself screaming, hollow and mournful in the deep cylinder of dirt. The thought of her beloved Danny, ripped to pieces by a baboon was too much to take.
She lunged at Danny's door, desperate to open it.
Triet dragged her back by her feet. She clawed and kicked at him and screamed for him to stop.
She knew he would not.
* * *
The panicked baboon attacked and Danny felt a strange sense of calm surround him.
The creature would kill him, of that he was sure. But in an instant, something in his makeup changed. A deep and suppressed urge took hold of him: the primal urge to survive.
Danny opened his eyes and saw the lunging creature. He uncoiled himself from the pathetic fetal-ball, braced himself against the floor, and slammed both feet into its soft belly. The baboon snorted and Danny drove it back into the door, blasting the air from its lungs.
It's him or me!
The baboon squirmed loose and squeezed down his left side. Everything became lucid. Danny could see clearly in the bright light. He stared into the baboon's beady eyes. Its snout peeled back, revealing sharp canines.
Adrenaline flooded Danny's muscles.
The animal lunged.
Danny knew what was coming; and before it happened, he was already reacting. He caught the animal by its gristly throat and dumped it on its back, slamming his own head into the low ceiling as he twisted forward. Then Danny drove his knee into its belly, gripped its neck as hard as he could, and throttled the baboon until its body went limp.
The light flicked off and the baby began crying.
Danny slumped. The adrenaline drained from his blood and the strength from his muscles. The creature was dead.
He curled up feeling shock and disbelief. They don't care if I die, he thought. What's happening? If Triet was holding him as a bargaining chip, he wouldn't risk killing him like this.
Then Danny's disbelief turned to dread. There would be no deal, he realized. No tradeoff.
Triet will torture me to death!
His body's primal urge to survive had kept him from dying, but now, curled up in his cell with the fetid stink of the dead baboon, his desire to live began to fade.
Amai, he thought. She's done this to me. It's all her.
* * *
Danny's screaming stopped.
She had no idea if he was alive or dead.
Then Triet grabbed her hair and dragged her backwards. She scrambled on her knees to lessen the pain, and crawled back into her cell without a fight. She was crying. The cruelty burned her too deeply and her mind reeled with the anguish.
For a while, she lay in her cell thinking a million thoughts of Danny. She had to assume he was alive, even if he wasn't; otherwise her mind would wither and die.
I have to get to him, she thought. I have to.
In the total dark her vision was useless. As a result, her brain devoted all of its power to hearing and touch. With these senses now honed to the point of ultra sensitivity, her mind built up a picture of her environment. In her mind's eye she could see each depression in the clay walls; the door; its hinges; the gap along its opening edge; the main tunnel beyond; Danny's location; the zigzagging tube that led to the surface; and the steamy jungle above.
Bodies scrapped past her door. The guttural mumblings and laughter moved away into the depths, quickly masked by the thickness of the earth.
The silence crushed her. Amai had lived underground, ironically in this very complex, but compared to this torturous hole, the two situations were poles apart.
Then she tensed and put her ear to the door; the faintest of sounds had come from Danny's direction.
He's alive.
She yelled into the door, desperate for Danny to hear her, but there was no response. She thumped the edge of her fist against the timber, hoping he would feel the vibration, but several minutes of thumping led to nothing.
This is useless, she thought.
Then it came to her. She groped around the floor, running her hands over the smooth, compacted clay. Where the back wall met the floor, her middle finger hit something hard and she felt a rush of excitement: a piece of shale was imbedded in the dirt, and her fingers automatically went to work on loosening it.
She dug around it, wiggled it, and then pulled it free.
Amai held the shale in her hand and felt buoyed. She took it to the door, guessed the lock-bolt's position, and started boring into the wall on the door's opening edge. The clay was hard, but she twisted and dug the shale into the wall, determined to make a hole. Shavings of dirt dropped onto her pajama pants, and every so often, she spread it across the floor, just incase Triet returned and discovered what she was doing.
After time, the chiseling became laborious. Thoughts and emotions entered her mind; emotions that had to be controlled if she was to survive. She spread out more spoil, and kept digging.
I failed to warn the Americ
ans of Tet, she thought. She pictured the slaughter. I'm responsible. I'll never stop it now! The thought made her feel sick. She spread out more spoil and dug harder, feeling blood on her fingers. Triet's torturing the man I love. She drove the stone into the clay. I hate him.
Then Amai realized that she had succeeded in boring a small hole in the wall, and she set about enlarging it.
Poor Danny, she thought. I love him so much. I have to get to him. I have to get out of here.
All she had wanted was to be with Danny; to get away from this war and this hate. She wanted to wake up beside him in the mornings and listen to the sound of the birds singing and their children playing.
I must escape, she thought. I must get to him.
But she knew it was next to hopeless and felt defeat return. She spread out more spoil and kept digging.
Then she heard sounds in the main tunnel. She put her ear to the door and heard bodies and muffled voices and her heart sank.
Triet was back.
49
The Cayuse left Saigon behind and the hodgepodge of rusted roofs fell away to a sparkling landscape of lime-green and glass black rice paddies.
Under full power, the chopper climbed out at 70 knots into a sky layered with sheets of watery cloud. They crossed into Cambodian airspace, and Chaske wondered if he would ever see Danny again. He looked into the back. Cam was in one of her trances. Blue was tying sheet-shanks in a repelling line. Blue caught his eye, and said: 'I'm a bit green-around-the-gills, mate.'
'You were pretty drunk last night.'
'Had a-skin-full,' he made a face. 'Though I was on leave.'
Chaske smiled and turned back.
Civil Air Transport's approved flight-plan avoided known enemy positions and provided the safest route over Cambodia, and into South-Western Laos, where they would break course and find their drop-zone.
Chaske felt as though he was riding a rollercoaster of doubt - but now he had no choice but to hang on for the ride.
The Cayuse reached 15,000 feet, leveled out, and settled in at 125 knots.
Golota banked north, and said: 'Manifold pressure's low. Fuel's half on primary.'