by H. L. Valdez
Butch's father was a criminal investigator working for Japan's National Police Agency. Marco's father, Louis, was a narcotics detective working for the New York City Police Department. Both men became friends while tracking Japanese gangsters who were making connections with drug distributors in America. The opium, morphine, and heroin business was growing quickly and Japanese were supplying huge amounts of heroin to the biggest drug rings in the United States. Both detectives were assigned to Japan's Bureau of Narcotics, who began to notice an increase in the use of Japanese morphine, called cotton morphine because of its appearance. After following informant leads to Hong Kong, they worked closely with the Hong Kong Royal Police and died there during a costly international raid on a heroin-refining lab.
Marco Madrid and Ryuichiro "Butch" Moriguchi were teenagers when they met. Butch’s father enrolled him in a high school exchange program, where he lived with Marco, while both attended Power Memorial High School. Butch had a reserved and quiet nature and struggled with English. Living in Manhattan, he was becoming street smart and was losing his shyness as he continued to be harassed in high school. Marco, also a sophomore, had daily fights with inner city kids, making him tough and durable. He was also a member of the five thousand strong, Golden Ginny’s, New York’s largest street gang, and was also a State Golden Gloves contender. All the cops knew Marco; many had purposefully kept him in jail overnight for street fighting. In the early 1940s and 1950s in Manhattan, street gangs ruled the five boroughs of New York; it was impossible to stay neutral.
Marco was tall, well built, with wavy black hair; he was a natural leader with a talent for organizing turf wars against rival gangs such as the Dragons, the Black Trojans, and the Gladiators. Marco's quick wit, hyper personality, and verbal skills offset his belligerence. His father forced him and Butch to study martial arts with police rookies at the police academy. By the time they were seniors in high school, they had become a force to be reckoned with. Butch and Marco were like brothers and their unique fighting capabilities made them a strong and feared street team.
Crying, Marco looked up--as the casket appeared trying to cope with his father’s death. Butch and Marco looked at each other then watched the flag-draped coffin gracefully and respectfully being carried with reverence down the frosty steps. In a last gesture of homage, each police officer saluted. An eerie muffled silence prevailed as Detective Mike Madrid, brother of the deceased, wept.
After the burial, Butch and Marco went to Mike’s home. Together, they were forced to face the psychological turmoil of losing their fathers. They had to grapple with new and unfamiliar emotional boundaries. On this particular night their bond was seared in sorrow. Standing in the doorway, the boys peered into the bedroom. Mike was visibly shaken and had been crying. Marco stared at his uncle's swollen red eyes and puffy face.
"Uncle Mike, you all right?" he whispered with a heavy sigh, leaning his head in the doorway.
“No, I'm not all right. How can I be all right?" he answered brusquely lying on the bed raising his hand.
"This is all so confusing," Marco said gently. "Can we talk?" he asked with a grave expression.
"Don't feel like talking right now," Mike said, shaking his finger no.
"Talk about the facts," Marco urged, easing his way into the room.
"Tell us what happened," Butch suggested, with a pensive expression, solemnly following Marco.
"Tell us the whole story," Marco urged, with an intense stare.
“It's a confusing story," Detective Madrid answered, and trembling chin, his voice fluttering with remorse, patting the bed for the boys to come forward. Distraught, the two ambled into the shadowy room. Marco glanced at the frosted window and the large snowflakes spiraling toward the ground. Feeling chilled, Butch and Marco sat on the bed covering themselves in blankets. Butch glanced at the thick icicles hanging from the roof. Mike leaned against the backboard, his eyes vacant, his expression flat. The musical hit, Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin, was playing softly on the radio. Marco stared at his uncle's face, noticing the small scars acquired from scuffles while making arrests in Manhattan. Then Mike spoke, not the angry, tense voice Marco had heard so often. But a tender voice, soft and sad as he revealed his soul.
“Your father and Detective Moriguchi were gathering evidence on heroin smuggling as part of a narcotics task force," Mike said sighing.
"I don't know what went wrong," he said, his eyes welling with tears, exhaling deep in sorrow. Inhaling deeply again, he exhaled a long deep sigh of sadness.
"It was their fate," Butch said looking at Mike, who turned to watch the swirling snowflakes and hide his crying.
"Did they catch the bad guys?" Marco asked, frowning.
"No. Not yet." He answered, gritting his teeth, clearing his throat.
“Life is not fair," Butch replied watching Mike wiping his eyes with a blue handkerchief with the white initials of N.Y.P.D. embossed in the corner.
"I'm sad and confused," Marco replied quietly, leaning back. "This is difficult for me."
"For me too," Mike said composing himself, pulling out a thick diary filled with pictures from under his pillow.
"Take your time Mr. Madrid," Butch said calmly, wiping his face with the palm of his hands.
"Your fathers kept me informed of their activities when they were working in Los Angeles, Hong Kong, and Tokyo. I saved the notes and kept track of narcotic activities. I also saved the pictures they sent me, including former girlfriends. But one day I received this diary with a letter saying they were on their way to Hong Kong and would I keep this book in a safe place." Mike swallowed hard fighting to hold back a flood of tears. He covered his face with a handkerchief, straining to compose himself.
"I would like to borrow those notes and read through them if you don’t mind?” Butch asked extending his hand for the historical record and possible clues.
"If you're that curious, go ahead," he answered, handing Butch the mementos. “Just return them.”
"Thanks. I will." He replied, nodding slowly.
"Mr. Madrid, how did my dad die?" Butch asked, his voice filled with resentment. Detective Madrid looked at his innocent face knowing he had an obligation to the truth.
"Both your fathers were on the trail of a Japanese gangster with links to the Chinese Triads. But a nationwide tip-off syndicate run by retired police officers linked to the Yakuza kept this leader informed of police activity.”
"That's pretty scary," Butch said, gulping back his emotions.
"It is scary, but systemic corruption inspired by the Yakuza, exists within Japanese law enforcement," Mike informed them, glaring.
"That means police identify with the gangs' ideals of giri and ninjo and fashion themselves after the old fashioned samurai," Butch replied looking at Marco.
"But this mutual respect is reinforced by binding links between high-ranking government officials and gang leaders," Mike said.
"That sounds ugly," Marco replied, staring out the window, deep in reflection, staring at the large snowflakes gently fall.
"What's ugly is that the crime group receives notice on police raids,” Mike said, his face turning red.
“That means Yakuza soldiers have time to hide evidence,” Butch replied.
"How do they get away with that?" Marco asked.
"Money. And lots of it," Mike answered.
"Our father’s never had a chance," Butch whispered mournful.
"Crime never takes a holiday," Mike responded.
"Who’s to blame for the deaths?" Marco questioned bitterly.
"That's hard to say," Mike said. "The Triads are a criminal element steeped in the opium trade. They exist in various forms in Hong Kong, Korea, and Thailand and are tightly linked by ethnicity, and codes of silence," he informed them.
"They're all to blame." Butch stated.
"The Yakuza Chairman and his mob also serve as an alternative police force," Mike added. "When the Triads move money through Japan, the mob protects
them."
"No wonder my father died," Marco responded.
In silence, the boys stared into each other's eyes trying to make sense of what they heard. Their gaze shifted toward the corner of the room at an oak desk, cluttered with police memorabilia resembling an antique shop. Police badges, plaques, awards, and photographs hung from the wall. Marco stared at a graduation picture of his father taken at New York's Police Academy. On the dresser was a small snapshot of their fathers riding the Star Ferry in Victoria Harbor between Kowloon and Hong Kong. Another photo was of a group of men taken at Victoria Park 1,805 feet above sea level; in the background was a view of Hong Kong, the harbor, and the hills of China beyond Kowloon. Other photographs hanging on the wall were of Mr. Moriguchi and Marco's dad with men they didn't know. Butch was filled with hate, deeply hurt and bitter about his father's death. Marco was angry and resentful. On that winter night, they decided to follow in their father’s footsteps. They were bound together by anger, remorse, and despair. Their opportunity for revenge was approaching. Their life mission was in place.
Golden Triangle
Fifteen Years Later. 28 June 1964. Vietnam, East of Khe Sanh, near the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos. The Geneva Treaty of 1954, which ended French rule in Indochina, created a communist nation in North Vietnam and a pro-western Vietnam in the South. French Saigon, the Paris of the Orient, bustled with beautiful Vietnamese women adorned in silk dresses exuding French perfume. The French colonist’s left idyllic tree lined boulevards and gardens. The smell of aromatic Chinese and French cuisine emanated from outdoor cafes. Yet, as each month passed, American advisors found the Vietnam struggle growing more savage. American planes were bombing North Vietnam after an attack on the USS Maddox in the Gulf of Tonkin. Beatle mania was pandemic.
From 1959 through 1963, the English language steadily began to replace French as American Special Forces assigned to the Central Intelligence Agency arrived in Southeast Asia. Top Special Forces soldiers were disguised from military rolls and sent to join Laotian hill tribes in the remote mountains of Laos to fight drug lords who were helping finance the war. Selected by the Central Intelligence Agency, the soldiers were "sheep dipped," or became "non-existing-persons” wearing black or brown peasant clothing, and carrying their own brand of weapon. During this time, the National Liberation Front or Communist Viet Cong was formed and U.S. helicopter operations began. Americans were being captured and brutalized and deprived of their human rights. While Vietnam was rebuilding, Americans began burying their dead, one-by-one.
Poppy cultivation and heroin-refining activity along the Thai border was increasing due to favorable weather and the lack of enforcement operations. All intelligence information among the United States, the Japanese government and the Union of Burma had stopped. The Japanese government, struggling for legitimacy, amended the Narcotics Control Law and introduced heavier penalties for drug abuse and trafficking. Japanese Yakuza crime groups involved in trafficking faced life imprisonment. It was a risk criminals were willing to take. Yet, as international police agreements failed, Burma became a general source country for narcotics leaving Thailand. The military pullback from the North meant narcotics moved along unsecured roadways by truck in large volume. Increasing numbers of opiate products from Burma found their way through China, India, Laos, and Bangladesh. The lack of narcotics enforcement, economic instability, and the bribe and favor relationship led to intelligence leaks within the deadly crime network. The system was ripe for abuse.
Inside the steep wilderness of the dense rain forest, plunging rivers and tortuous ridges collided with heat and dampness. It was here that Army Lieutenant Colonel Richard Rose and Doctor Karl Messner waited in darkness to ambush a small group of Meo tribesmen smuggling raw opium and refined heroin on mule back into Laos. The Vietcong operating in the same geographic area had intensified military activity hoping to insure adequate supplies of rice for their own cadres. From their underground tunnels, they came out at night to plant punji stakes smeared with human waste and foot traps filled with fire-hardened bamboo spikes.
"We've been here for two days Rich. How much longer do you want to wait?" Karl asked impatiently.
“Another week if we have to. We have to be like the Meo, they have desire, patience, and are devastatingly effective," Rich answered with subdued arrogance.
"I just…I just don't like waiting around," Karl said anxiously, as the loud bird-song of the golden-cheeked gibbon, marked its territory.
"Listen, the Meo are willing to fight because the war is disrupting their trade in opium," Rich said, arrogantly.
“Besides, who gives a shit about a little opium out here in no man's land?” He argued, mean spirited. "These slope heads grow the stuff wild anyway. They won’t miss one shipment," he assumed, with a gleam in his eye.
"These slope heads, as you say, barter the stuff to buy iron, salt, and necessities. We're screwing up their trade, don’t you think?" Karl replied, frustrated.
“What’s your biggest fear?” Rich asked.
“Being captured by the Vietcong,” he replied, shaking off his goose bumps.
"Listen, I don't like being near a Vietcong sanctuary any more than you do. Hey, I know these guys are brutal," Rich replied. “Don't panic, and don't be immobilized by your fear," he added casually. "Just be alert for reconnaissance patrols and strange noises,"
"It's a deadly game of hide and seek isn't it, Rich? Its all a head game to you isn't it?" he said, shaking his head.
"Remember when we were in R.O.T.C. at San Diego State and played all those mind games with those assholes?” Rich asked grinning. "Well this is no different. Only this time we get to zap the bastards." He chuckled.
"We pulled some crazy stunts didn't we? All those keg parties, the Aztec football games, and sorority sisters. I miss that place," Karl reminisced.
"Hey, don't go down memory lane on me. Don't let your mind go slack. Pay attention."
"Drag racing down El Cajon Boulevard, doing the nasty in the back seat of my Chevy at the Midway Drive-In, and..."
"Zip it up!" Rich blurted, glaring at Karl. "Pay attention! And don't look at me! Look in front of you!" he whispered loudly.
"You always were an asshole," Karl said, smiling.
"Most Americans are assholes. Why do you think we're killing Gooks?” he asked, glaring with indifference.
"Remember the bar fight in Tijuana?" Karl asked grinning.
"That was a good fight," Rich said, breaking into a broad smile. "It was worth the weekend in jail," he gloated. "We jacked them Wet's up good."
"I could always find trouble hanging around you," Karl reminisced.
"I hate being bored, man. I hate it. I need to stay pumped," Rich, said smugly.
"When I came from Stuttgart, Germany and started college, you were my first friend," Karl added turning his gaze to Rich.
“OK man, enough. Stop the syrupy stuff.” He ordered as the shrill of thousands of cicadas created an almost deafening racket. “I’m going crazy with that damn noise. Where’s a good flame thrower when you need one?”
“Just get us out alive. Being in the bush puts a real bone in my throat,” Karl said, uneasily, disturbed with the tone of the conversation.
“Hey, the warlords are growing over 70-percent of the world's illicit opium and control 150,000 square miles of northeastern Burma, Northern Thailand, and Northern Laos,” Rich said. “I don't want much. But I need to take a little something home. Besides, they can spare it.” He said, with a dismissive glance.
“I just don't like it. It doesn't feel right. Here we are in the Golden Triangle. And for what?” Karl asked questioning his values as a Gray Peacock Pheasant was quietly passing behind them.
“Cut the crap. We're in it for the money. Don't trap yourself in careless oversight. That's all there is to it,” he replied with impatient frustration. “Look, Congress gave us the power to prevent aggression and take all necessary steps to protect any nation. That's our mandate.”
&nb
sp; "So, we're going to steal opium from the Meo to defend freedom? That doesn't make sense."
"Hey, we're faced with more war, more inflation, less money, and less positive support. Besides, Laos is a free port for opium. There's no law against growing and processing or for that matter smoking opium…only jungle rules!" he whispered with a nefarious grin, shrugging his shoulders.
"There's a law against murder and robbery," Karl answered cryptically.
"Hey, mountain tribes regularly cultivate opium. They won't miss one shipment, they're selling and smuggling shipments of opium, morphine, and heroin to aid our enemies," Rich replied with practiced arrogance, his eyes searching the dark dense forest.
"You and I have a mutual aid pact and I'll honor that. But, after tonight, I'm finished. I’m tired of this.”
"After tonight, we'll be set for life and we can retire. Quit worrying. Now please, just shut-up."
“I don't want to become a pawn in some Corsican vendetta,” Karl said, agitated.
"Jesus of Mercy, you need to toughen up a bit here," Rich replied, agitated.
"As soon as we make this hit, let's get to Saigon and sell this stuff outright,"
"Fine! We'll sell some, and ship some home to California. Now, just be quiet and listen," Rich stated impatiently as millions of fireflies flickered on and off.
Two Hours Later
Staring into the darkness, Colonel Rose was peering through the green night vision scope, staring across a narrow river. On full alert, he was thinking about the thirty-five primitive tribes occupying the vast mountain forests in Laos and the flat farmland. He knew the Meo tribesmen were willing to be trained and fight with the Special Forces, because the war had interfered with the opium trade. Feeling sleepy, Dr. Messner struggled to stay awake; his eyes were blinking, his head bobbing, worrying that the enemy had many faces including diplomats, secret agents, Asian soldiers, Vietnamese government workers, Police, French Intelligence Officers, the American Mafia, and an assortment of international drug traffickers. Colonel Rose heard the long grass rustling and what sounded like a dog’s bark echoed in the night, and from a different direction, a rooster crowed.