by H. L. Valdez
“Get ready Karl!" Rich whispered poking him hard in the ribs then steadied his sniper's rifle on the bipod. Karl put on his night vision goggles then reluctantly adjusted the scope mounted on his .357 Magnum. Both men were tense and motionless.
"Wait until they come closer," Rich said, adjusting the range-finder scope on his XM21 sniper rifle.
"I see them," Karl whispered. "They're stopping. Why are they stopping?"
"Quiet," Rich whispered aiming, applying steady pressure against the trigger.
"Reaaadeee-Reaaadeee…kill em’!" the Colonel ordered, firing a burst of bullets traveling over eighteen hundred feet per second, scaring hundreds of bats into flight. Turning their heads, two tribesmen were hit in the sternum collapsing their lungs, shattering their spines, knocking them backwards and slamming them against the sweaty pack mules. Karl fired his weapon, hitting one of the tribesmen in the back as he ran. When the Meo turned around and exhaled, blood was flying out of his throat as though a faucet were turned on. The Colonel continued firing through jungle foliage so thick that he could shoot without being seen. Trails disappeared in spiky vines shredding trousers from ankle to groin. Plunged into a state of unexpected confusion, the six tribesmen armed with crossbows, blowguns, and light weapons, lay dead and bleeding.
"That was easy," Colonel Rose said with pride "Come on! Let's get this stuff to Saigon!” He ordered smugly, turning on his standard issue flashlight with a red lens walking toward the excited animals.
"Hey, you're all right boys," Rich assured a sweaty mule patting then kissing him on the cheek. "You're okay. You’re fine. You're okay," he patted and persuaded the skittish animals while grabbing the reins as both men steadied and soothed the jittery pack animals.
"This guy’s alive and moaning," Karl blurted tripping over a tribesman.
"Don't worry, he won't live long," he replied, greedily examining the shipment.
“I can check him real quick,”
"Damn, a bullet ripped a bag open. Probably your poor shooting skills,” Rich said, inserting his forefinger into the hole.
“What should I do?” Karl questioned, struggling with his hypocrisy, questioning his values, coming to terms with his selfishness, medical ethics, and pledge to serve humanity, preserve life, and save a human being in a moment of trauma.
“Keep practicing at the rifle range,” Rich suggested checking the morphine and opium-laden bags.
“I can clamp him up,”
“Don’t get weepy over this. Mother-of-God just put a clamp on this bag and let’s go,”
“I can’t believe your attitude,” Karl groused, clamping the hole shut then applying surgical tape.
“Hey, snap out of it!” Colonel Rose shouted, snapping his finger. “He’s bleeding to death, he won't last. Here grab the straps," he said annoyed, grabbing Karl’s wrist, placing the worn leather reins into his soft hands.
“I feel guilty,” Dr. Messner said with a tight chest as a pair of gray-shanked dour monkeys stared down at him from a tree branch.
“He’s dead real soon. He’s dead real fast,” Rich said wide-eyed, pressing his face close to Karl’s.
“You’re an asshole,” he replied tugging the mule forward as the bleeding Meo tribesman lay motionless face down, watching the mules pass. After several minutes, the Meo crawled to a mound of opium and morphine that spilled on the ground. Painfully, he began spreading a handful of the powder on his bleeding leg and in one easy motion, ingested some of the powerful narcotic, then drank water from a goat bladder. Examining his wound closely, the Meo removed a thin rope wrapped around his waist. Crawling to the edge of the path, he began gathering leaves, twigs, pieces of bark, thick branches, medicinal plants and vines. Crawling back to the mound of morphine, he began constructing a leg brace, using larger leaves to hold the mixture against his gaping wound. Weakening and struggling to stay conscious, he feverishly began binding the compress firmly in place. Agonizingly sitting up and taking deep breaths, the Meo began re-calibrating his emotions, and his will to live, while mentally centering himself. Focusing on the natural, nocturnal sounds of the primeval forest the Meo closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then began chanting, his deep vocalizations echoing throughout the stillness of the dark valley.
“Hey Rich, listen. Stop!” Karl shouted.
“What?”
“Chanting! I hear chanting,”
“Probably some guy passing gas. Keep moving,”
“Maybe it’s the Meo? Maybe he’s still alive?
“I should’ve shot that that little slope head,” Rich replied with a disgusted snort.
“He didn’t see our faces,”
“I hope the Gook didn’t take it personal that we put a bullet in him?” Karl laughed.
“I did offer to help,” Karl said, meekly.
“Forget it. If you shot him in the chest, he’s gonna die. If you didn’t, then we could have a problem,” Rich speculated, picking his nose.
“What should we do?”
“Forget it. We’ll be in the States in a few months. Then the fun begins,” Rich assured him, grinning.
“I’m worried,”
“Screw it! Keep moving!”
“I hope you’re right,” Karl answered. “Listen, the chanting stopped,” he said, cupping his hand to his ear, listening intently.
“See, I told you he would die. Let’s go,”
“I hope you win this crap game,” Karl mumbled, tugging and struggling with the reins as the mule refused to budge, digging his hind hooves into the dirt.
At the ambush site, the Meo was feebly trying to stand, gripping a thick decaying bamboo fragment with two hands. Struggling not to fall, he began limping to his base camp. Stopping, becoming confused, he rocked back-and-forth in his tracks and unsteadily removed a transmitter from his small leather pouch. Blinking his eyes, wobbling and shaking, his physical responses were reacting to the psychobiological effects of the drugs. Struggling to remain standing, emotional waves of euphoria rippled through his body as he rocked back-and-forth trying to avoid going into shock. His electrical impulses were being morphineized, causing chemical misfires in his neurons and central nervous system. Large amounts of dopamine were being released in his cerebral cortex, flooding his cognition, gripping his sensibilities as he peek-a-booed in and out of reality. Almost delirious, his sweaty, blood stained hand, gripped the small metal box. Wobbling, blinking, and staring at the transmitter, the Meo pushed the on-button immediately sending an emergency radio signal to a nearby remote refinery and listening post controlled by the 16,000 member Chiu Chao Triads.
Hong Kong
29 June 1964. Hong Kong. Marco Madrid was riding an elevator to the 18th floor of the Royal Hong Kong Police Department, bobbing his head, and listening to piped in music of the Dixie Cups singing Chapel of Love. Eyeballing and assessing the group, he stood silently in the corner, lusting after women whose long hair was pulled back with designer scarves. He scrutinized females wearing narrow pipe-stem pants, sexually fantasizing about the “super feminine” females in designer raincoats. He evaluated the women wearing jewelry accessories from North Africa, the Middle and Far East. The fragrant smelling women were stimulating his male senses, activating his primal urges. He began thinking with his glands. The elevator bell pinged and the copper-gold doors opened to the 18th floor. Marco opened his eyes, hesitated for a moment, and then stepped into the quiet vestibule leading to the Police Chief's office. Walking up to the large bay windows, he stared at the breath taking night view of Hong Kong. With his hands in his pockets he stood admiring one of the finest natural harbors in the world, with ample space for all the fleets worldwide to ride at anchor in perfect security. Ocean-going liners, oil-sleek tankers, container vessels, passenger ferries, and traditional Chinese junks with beautiful butterfly-wing sails all swayed in a buoyant maritime concert in Victoria Harbor. The dynamic glittering panoramic view, dotted with striking terraces rising tier above tier from the water's edge, twinkled with thousand
s of colorful neon lights.
As the city below sparkled in the dance of life, a pensive Marco speculated on his father's death.
"This is a place where people play hard, work hard and make money," he mumbled. "This is the place where my father died. The killers are out there. They have to be," he lamented, thinking of the old photographs taken in Hong Kong. Breaking his concentration, a muscular Gurkha Officer opened the large double oak wooden doors.
"You must be Detective Madrid," Captain Wikens said walking toward him, smiling, extending his hand in friendship, trying to determine Marco's motives.
"And you’re Captain Wikens,” he replied, socially saturated in male image armor as the Captain psychologically wore his defensive Gorilla Suit, hiding his true self while engaging in a bone-crushing handshake, assessing each other’s strength and determination of purpose.
"Very good,” Captain Wikens acknowledged, releasing his grip, evaluating Marco’s physical capabilities.
“You’re a pretty sturdy guy.” Marco replied, good-naturedly.
“I’m the leader of Gurkha Military Police Force," he countered, still evaluating Marco's physical build, assessing if he could whip Marco in a fight.
“And, I’m the leader of a Crisis Response Team.”
“You have my ear. I’m willing to listen.”
"Thank you. Well, it's an impressive view, and you have a terrific office," Marco answered looking toward the window, gathering his thoughts.
"Unfortunately, my unit is at Sek Konh Camp, in the New Territories on the outskirts of Hong Kong. I’m in the bush,” he replied, hitting his chest with his thumb.
"More action out there?" Marco asked, studying his face trying to understand Captain Wikens psychological veins of thought and reasoning.
"Action is everywhere," the blond, ruggedly handsome officer said smiling.
“That’s where I want to be,” Marco replied, recalling his childhood fantasy.
“Hong Kong is where most of the Triad groups trafficking in heroin are based,"
"It's hard to believe that fifty percent of the world's heroin flows from this city," Marco said seriously.
"This is the financial center of the drug trade," the officer said. "It's the bank secrecy laws, and lack of currency controls that have created a safe haven for narcotic generated funds," he claimed, leading the way toward the office.
"When you combine an open environment, a booming economy, privately owned docks, and shipping facilities, then mix that with a British ‘hands off’ government, you produce creativity and success," Marco bantered, following the Captain.
"You also create a range of problems," Captain Wikens said snickering, leading Marco into the Police Chief's luxurious office.
"Chief, this is Detective Madrid. Mr. Madrid, this is the Chief of the Hong Kong Police, Chief Larry Liang," the officer said, with reverence.
"Please, call me Larry," the Chief replied, rising from his chair extending his hand across his neat mahogany desk.
"Let's sit by the window, we’ll be more comfortable," the Chief suggested, thinking Marco looked familiar, repeating his last name in his head trying to recall the familiarity of the name. As they moved toward a small table overlooking the harbor, Marco noticed several photographs placed on a table in the corner. Instantly, a déjà vu swept his consciousness, transporting him to his youth and his Uncle's bedroom. While each man composed himself, a frail beautiful Chinese woman in her late thirties served tea. Serene and dignified, she filled each cup.
"Thank you, thank you," the Chief said, nodding. As she turned, Marco picked up his tea noticing a small dragon tattoo on her left calf.
"Cream and sugar, Mr. Madrid," Captain Wikens suggested offering condiments on a red floral plate.
“No thank you,” he smiled, his gut sensing something was not right. Something was out of place. Something did not fit.
"So, Mr. Madrid, what is your purpose today?" The Chief asked bluntly, holding the steaming tea to his lips, studying Marco's features, trying to recollect whom he resembled. He was troubled and pre-occupied with recalling what made Marco so familiar.
"Well, I'm trying to establish a policy to initiate border reconnaissance among U.S. Government personnel, the Hong Kong Royal Police, and members of the Gurkha Army," Marco explained with quiet confidence, studying each man's face for a reaction.
"I see. So you're asking the British Government to help your government stop global drug trafficking?" Asked Wikens, with skeptic apprehension.
"I heard this idea before," the Chief answered placing his teacup on the colorful saucer, pre-occupied with recalling forgotten memories.
"We're asking for cooperation," Marco replied. "I know Gurkha are recruited from hill tribesmen in the Himalayan kingdom of Nepal. We realize the British Gurkhas are respected jungle fighters and are fierce mountain warriors," Marco said feeling uneasy about the flow of the conversation.
"It’s difficult to cooperate informally. We have no formal or binding diplomatic agreements," Wikens replied, studying Marco's reaction.
"Mr. Madrid," the Chief interrupted. "They’re tensions on the border with Burma and on the eastern border with Kampuchea. The Royal Thai Army regularly finds itself face-to-face with the Vietnamese Army."
"Also, Communist insurgents in Malaysia have used southern Thailand as a sanctuary for many years. They have repeated clashes with Thai military forces," Captain Wikens stated.
"Mr. Madrid, your mission is daunting, but we have our own regional priorities," the Chief stated, as Marco cleared his throat placing his tea on the shiny Chinese mahogany table thinking of what to say. “Anything else?”
“My mission includes unconventional warfare behind enemy lines, counter-insurgency operations to destroy poppy fields, interrupting heroin manufacturing and distribution, and capturing the money men running the organizations," Marco informed the men who were capable of helping or hindering his purpose.
"That's a very complicated mission," Wikens answered, contemplating the implications.
“This is more than border reconnaissance. The plan is very aggressive,” the Chief replied.
“It’s a commitment, at least in principle,” Marco stated quietly.
"Mr. Madrid, British and Gurkha soldiers help the Hong Kong Police patrol the border with China and often capture refugees sneaking into Hong Kong,” the Chief informed him suspiciously. “Some of the refugees may carry heroin, but not usually, but big time global interventions: I can’t commit my resources to that," he said shaking his head no.
"What problems do you see?" Marco asked, quietly.
"In the remote border areas of Burma, Laos, and Thailand, the Endo and Leung families mediate the sale of opium poppies grown by the Kuomintang," Wikens said staring at Marco. "The two clans are capable of negotiating with competing warlords and drug merchants. Once a deal has been struck, their heavily armed mule caravans insure delivery to remote refineries controlled by the Chiu Chao Triad, who also control the Thailand heroin market," he concluded, glancing at the Police Chief who was pre-occupied and remote. Marco's gaze shifted between the men, noticing the Chief close his eyes. Feeling apprehensive, he looked toward Victoria Harbor struggling to manage the psycho-dynamics of the moment.
"Mr. Madrid," the Chief blurted, raising his head with a sense of resignation.
"Yes chief," Marco replied turning to him.
"The Leung's use one of their daughters as a multinational link in organized crime. Part of her power comes from her family's historical ties with the hill tribes in the Golden Triangle.”
“Why haven’t you arrested her?” Marco asked, quickly regretting his question.
“It’s not that easy,” the Chief replied, smiling broadly. “The Leungs finance a lot of heroin business. They serve rich clients who pay $100,000 or more for weekends with elite Asian prostitutes. A night with one of their high-class call girls costs an average of $22,000, while an hour is over $2,000," the Chief replied grinning, shaking his head,
glancing at the sparkling neon lights of the city and harbor.
"Detective Madrid," Wikens interrupted, "This family also has skilled chemists who refine and oversee the heroin processing, while providing their workers with low priced prostitutes to help ease the stress of production," he said, as the Chief listened and snickered, while lighting a Gitanes French made cigarette.
“They also control a distribution operation to the street level. They're worthy opponents. We constantly lose men to their forces," Wikins added, staring at Marco’s jaw muscles twitching.
"The people you want are at the top of the pyramid," the Chief informed him sternly. “And they systematically murder their opponents.”
"So, the families are my starting point," Marco suggested, picking up his teacup.
"Alliances. Alliances," Chief Liang replied. "There is Mr. Endo, a Japanese businessman in Tokyo who wields a lot of power. He plays a big hand in the region. They call him Mr. Fatty, since he is a main source of drug distribution. He gives cash bonuses and provides hill tribes and bandits with outlets for local opium production. But since Tokyo is out of our jurisdiction, we don't have an extensive crime profile on him. Our progress has been slow," the Chief replied casually, staring at Marco skeptically, sipping his tea when the phone rang.
“Maybe I can help with that?” he said, in a relaxed posture