Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One

by H. L. Valdez

  “The trick is to move backward, careful not to brush against oozing sap.” Sasha said, casually.

  “What made you work in the fields?”

  “Leadership. If the men see you hustling, they’ll respect you more. Maybe they’ll work harder.”

  “Good idea. So tell me, what are your fondest memories of the job?”

  “Being in the wilds of Southeast Asia's Golden Triangle,” Sasha grinned, wondering about Yoko’s curiosity. “Relaxing and smoking black-gold opium at an evening fire; listening to old men tell stories of their ancestors and tribal struggles. Some nights I would carry pitch pine torches lighting the way for mule caravans leaving on the dusty roads.

  “Sounds intriguing,” she replied, tapping the fuel gauge.

  “Now you tell me, who selected you for this run?”

  “Yoshida-san, your chief bodyguard. We’ve been friends for a while.”

  “Why you?”

  “Hey, I just fly; besides, I’m compartmentalized in my cell just like everyone else. Yoshida said I should learn the route from you since you’re being promoted.”

  “Are you carrying?”

  “Carrying what?”

  “A weapon,” Sasha replied, “Like this,” she said pulling her pistol from the holster, and tapping the steel barrel against Yoko’s forehead.

  “I’m a pilot,” she said annoyed, yanking her head back.

  “Warning,” Sasha blurted. “Don’t double cross me or you’ll be one cute, but dead bird. I don’t know you, but I trust Yoshida,” she said suspiciously.

  “I got the message,” she agreed, nodding her head. “I got the message.”

  “Always carry. Even in the toilet, understand me?” she warned agitated, easing the pistol into the holster. “Yoshida should’ve given you a weapon. I’ll take care of that,” she said, looking at her watch, then scrutinized Miki’s black hair and carefully applied heavy makeup.

  “What are you thinking about?” Miki asked, feeling uncomfortable. “I don’t like people staring at me.”

  “Are you and Yoshida an item?”

  “No, we’re not lovers,” she replied, annoyed, tapping the fuel gauge. “We played huggy-bear-kissy-face, but were never lovers.”

  “How about now? What’s going on?” Sasha pursued.

  “Are you a reporter?” she asked, feeling her privacy was being invaded.

  “Answer the question.”

  “Okay then, I’m bedding down two guys. Now you know. Any thing else?”

  “Relax, I’m just getting to know you,” she said, grinning as her second-self began to peek-a-boo through her public self.

  “I got a guy in Mexico, but I’m trading him in on a new model,” she said casually, as both women looked at each other giggling.

  “I know what you mean,” Miki grinned, bouncing in the turbulence.

  “Damn,” Sasha blurted, bouncing, and gripping the grab handle above her seat.

  “It’s nature’s way of saying time to land,” Miki said, studiously checking the instrument panel, nervously tapping the dials repeatedly.

  “We’re alright. We’re at least fifteen minutes away,” Sasha said self-assured, sitting back closing her eyes, composing herself. Sasha had supervised the production of 500 tons of opium produced in the rugged hills of Burma's Shan State, one of the world's prime sources for the drug. Representing Tony Endo, she oversaw the opium being refined into heroin that would earn $135 billion on the international streets. After years as an international heroin courier, she was "Miss Solution" and serviced the streets with a knack for not violating good will. A complicated nemesis, she always looked for ways to win. It would take more than strength to beat her; she gave her opponents the competition they deserved. Her past loyalty led her to be a guide in the underworld with access to the leading figures in the Japanese and American drug markets. Sasha's new leadership role as Kobun and Director of Field Operations was one of eight director positions under the Oyabun and was a promotion into the male-dominated inner circle. The job required planning and facilitating drug meetings and their outcomes; it was a key role that came with decision-making power and the flexibility to invest Commission resources. She knew what the mob was doing and why they were doing it. Her added value rested in knowing how much graft was paid out in billions of dollars over the years and how much of that graft went to police, judges, and government officials. She was system smart and knew all the soft spots. Sasha passionately missed her perpetual boyfriend for life. She yearned for the intimacy, and passion of their pillow talk. No other man could fulfill her physical and psychological needs. Frustrated, she eagerly anticipated their reunion in Los Angeles; only there could she psychologically striptease openly, without reserve.

  Lightning suddenly flashed, illuminating the vastness of the ocean below. Sasha shivered all over as her instinctual urges rattled the base of her sexual drive. Opening her eyes, she sat up, rubbing her face, refocusing herself.

  "Where are we?" Sasha asked, glancing at the instrument panel.

  “Ahhh, closer, but we’re flying into a strong head-wind. So tell me, how did you supervise the production of so much opium?” she asked preoccupied, awkwardly scrutinizing the many dials, ignoring Sasha’s question.

  “Persistence and hard work,” she replied, closely watching Miki, as rain beat against the windows. “Actually it’s all about coordination. Coordinating other people’s work efforts.”

  “What’s the thrill for you?” she asked anxiously, feeling warm and stressed while unzipping the top of her flight suit, and unbuttoning her blouse, studying the instrument panel.

  “I don’t know. There’s a certain excitement in smuggling a truck load of heroin out of Laos and bumping along at night on unfinished roads to the port of Da Nang and other coastal rendezvous points,” she answered, pleased with herself while suspiciously evaluating Miki.

  “What’s the biggest worry out there?” she asked, staring and tapping the illuminated dials and quizzically studying the darkness in front of her.

  “I would say shootouts with Shan rebels, opium traffickers, armed robbers, Chinese Nationalists troops and Gurkhas,” she answered casually; yet deep within Sasha was a need for high anxiety in life. She was a neurotic sociopath with an overdeveloped and misdirected conscious. With few friends, she had a subconscious drive to succeed. These traits led her to compartmentalize unpredictable tension breeding factors into manageable limits that created immunity from her feelings. This coping mechanism permitted her to rationalize her motives, justify her behavior, and live in an atmosphere of crime. It was these traits that kept her alive. But when her tension and apprehension levels became extremely high, she would displace that energy with antisocial behavior, violence or sexual promiscuity. Sasha was the daughter of a performance oriented high achiever.

  “And how much money will the organization earn this year?” she asked, fearfully looking at the horizon, and then the dials, then at the horizon.

  “Are you a cop? You ask too many questions.” Sasha asked guardedly, suddenly sticking the barrel of her pistol against Miki’s ribs. “Are you wearing a wire?” she asked quietly, reaching over and inserting her hand into her open blouse, searching for a hidden wire.

  “Trust is earned. It’s not automatic,” she said gently, feeling Miki’s neck, ears and chest with her cold hand. “It’s verifiable trust,” she added softly, leisurely fondling Yoko’s firm breasts, stroking each nipple, then repeatedly cupped and clutched each breast in her hand, and slowly massaged her thin, firm stomach, then her sides.

  “Are you a size one?” She asked, nudging the barrel against Miki’s ribs.

  “Yes.”

  “Very nice.”

  “I’m on your side. Your bodyguard picked me, remember?” Miki said, blushing, turning toward the window, embarrassed.

  “Are you on my side?” she asked, as her fingers made their way to her panty line. “A girl has to be careful in this business,” Sasha added, resting her fingers agai
nst Miki’s vulva as she whimpered.

  “Anything in here?” she purred.

  “No,” Miki replied, shaking her head, humiliated.

  “You gave her a haircut, very nice,” she stated rubbing her vagina, and then inserted her finger deep inside Miki’s private domain while slowly, and steadily stroking her until she was dripping wet, and her panties soaked. The sexual intrusion stimulated both women. In her mind, Miki rationalized, justified, and minimized the sexual assault as part of the job. Trust had to be verified she repeated to herself, in denial of what was occurring.

  “You’re sweet,” Sasha said, delicately licking her wet fingers as Miki buttoned her blouse and clumsily zipped up her jump suit, hiding her feelings of indignation.

  “Are we flying anyplace later?” she asked awkwardly, as Sasha shouldered her pistol.

  “I am, you’re not. There’s a managers’ meeting with the International Heroin Commission in Little Tokyo in Los Angeles with Japanese-American drug leaders,” she answered as lightning struck, illuminating the horizon and surprising Sasha as she rubbed her eyes, refocusing on the vastness of the dark ocean below.

  “You doing okay?” Miki asked nervously.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “We’re almost there, buckle up,” Miki directed, sitting up straight, squinting for a landmark below, as the moon momentarily disappeared behind thick clouds.

  “Since we’re working together, let’s be friends,” Miki suggested.

  “I don’t know how to be friends.”

  “Just be yourself.”

  “That’s the problem. I have a lot of selves.”

  “Huh?”

  “Keep flying,” Sasha instructed, pointing her finger to the front. “Stay friends with yourself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Amiga,” the road is in front of you,” Sasha said with a faint smile, pointing forward.

  “Amiga, well that’s a start,” she replied, squinting, steadily descending into a growing air stream while anxiously checking and tapping the instrument panel. Both women sat in silence as Miki stared straight ahead, straining to see, yet losing her depth of field. Her eyes could not tell the difference between the black of night and the blackness of the water.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Sasha stated quietly, grabbing the yoke.

  “I can handle it.”

  “I know you can. But take a break. Just relax,” she suggested gently, as Miki nervously sat back wiping her moist palms on her black jump suit. Sasha stared straight ahead as the glow from the radium painted dials on the instrument panel reflected off her "S" shaped diamond ring. Her learned reflexes and strong arms took control of the craft, responding automatically to the logical process of operating the airplane. Her skillful use of navigational instruments and the interpretations of available data turned her flying skills into a scientific art. Sasha had a seaman's eye. Her highly developed seaman’s eye was used when judging distance, speed, momentum, and other physical relationships. Her eyes were used as a quick substitute for measurements and calculations. It was a faculty that some pilots had to a greater degree than others. Sasha had enhanced this ability by spending years as a snooper, maintaining contact with ships smuggling heroin throughout Asia. From a leg pocket on her aviator suit, she quickly withdrew a vial containing a pinch of heroin. In the true spirit of nineteenth-century addicts, she emptied the contents into her mouth, and then swallowed the powder with stale coffee. Gurgling down the narcotic, she drifted into a different character, and simultaneously gripped the midpoints of the yoke, steering the craft into in the black void.

  “Hang on. I love this part,” she said grinning, unbuckling her seat belt, as Miki sat trembling with fear.

  The Escape

  17 July 1964. Iriomote Island. The Crisis Response Team was crawling on their stomachs edging toward a shelter on the small bluff overlooking the hideout’s perimeter. Observing the activity through binoculars and night vision goggles, the resilience of both sides was about to be tested. In the nearby pond, massive cow-frogs mooed their mating calls in eerie tandem as dense gray-black moisture clouds slowly drifted in front of the moon. Moments from shore, Sasha’s plane was bouncing on white caps as wind-tossed spray hit the seaplane’s hull. Navigating through submerged coral reefs, Sasha determined wind velocity while steering toward the dock as the plane’s red, green and white lights blinked.

  "Hey Marco!" Primo shouted. "What about prisoners?"

  "Prisoner's are expendable," Marco shrugged. "That's their fate," he warned, detached from his emotions, watching the group secure the seaplane on the tarmac.

  “That’s okay with me.” He said, with a beaming face.

  “Wait for my signal to move,” Marco ordered. “Everyone stay in place.”

  “Primo what are we doing here?” Rita asked.

  “Just a paycheck.” He said, with a half-hearted shrug.

  “What’s you assessment, Marco?” Justin whispered.

  “My guess, it’s a heroin transshipment point.”

  “How did they get here?” Justin asked studying the gangsters’ silhouettes in the moonlight.

  “Seaplanes. Another seaplane is on the other side of the reef,” Primo answered, cocking his weapon.

  “Stay loose. Keep your fingers off the trigger,” Marco stated, looking at Primo.

  “They’re shutting the engines down,” Velvet said, peering through her binoculars watching Sasha exit the plane wearing a baseball cap and a long raincoat.

  “One guy just left the plane,” Butch blurted, watching the ground crew quickly refuel the aircraft.

  “I’m watching.” Marco replied.

  “Seems like they’re having a heated discussion,” Velvet remarked, trying to make sense of the scenario as Spanky growled in deep long tones.

  “Everyone keep watching,” Marco ordered, observing Sasha standing on the tarmac de-briefing with her Shipment Coordinator, Logistics Manager, Distribution Supervisor, Security Specialist, Load Supervisor, and Schedule Keeper.

  “My pilot needs a weapon, now. Fix her up, pronto,” Sasha instructed the security specialist, clapping her hands.

  “Right away,” he answered bowing slightly, quickly carrying out the order.

  “Everybody gather around, close ranks,” Sasha ordered harshly. “I’ll keep this sad story brief. Some Army guys stole my shipment near the Triangle. This tells me there’s a leak,” she informed the group, eyeing each man.

  “When did it happen?” The shipment coordinator asked.

  “Two weeks ago. Any ideas?” She asked, agitated as her second-self began to emerge and overpower her logical public self.

  “Any survivors?” The coordinator asked, swaying side to side.

  “No. Why?” She lied suspiciously, as her beast voice was overcoming her rational voice.

  “It gets tough out there,” he answered, smugly. “It’s a jungle out there,” he joked, looking to the other men for reinforcement.

  “Yeah, it gets real tough,” she replied sarcastically, as the glum faced group stood nervously. “You’re my shipment coordinator!” Her beast voice shouted as her second-self was bursting through her public-self.

  “Yeah, so what!” he blurted nervously, disrespectfully.

  “What happened to the shipment?” She shouted, easing her pistol from her shoulder holster, holding the bulky weapon at her side.

  “I didn’t steal it! I don’t know!” he said, avoiding eye contact

  “Tell me what happened. You’re in charge,” she shouted, cocking the pistol as dozens of armed henchmen watched uneasily, anticipating violence, stirring awkwardly.

  “I don’t know! I swear!” He answered fearing for his life, licking his lips, looking at the men for support. “Ask anyone here,” he pleaded.

  “Something so obvious and you missed it?” She reasoned, closely observing his jaw muscles twitch as he began grinding his teeth.

  “Somebody tell her,” he shouted, looking at the g
roup.

  “How could you overlook a shipment not being delivered? When were you going to tell me?” She asked, facing the semi-circle of men in front of her.

  “As soon as I saw you!” He said restlessly, with a faint smile.

  “Did you work with the Saigon crew?”

  “Dangerous question, Sasha,” Yoshida replied.

  “Careful with that answer, it could break cell security,” the Security Chief warned.

  “Thanks. You both did your job,” she replied curtly. “Now answer the question,” she demanded in a calm voice staring deep into his eyes.

  “Yes, I worked with the Saigon crew,” he answered, shifting his body weight, turning his head toward the dark ocean.

  “Thank you. And you’re fired!” She replied, raising her weapon, shooting him in the chest knocking him backward to the ground.

  “Help me somebody,” he gasped falling with an outstretched arm, holding his chest.

  “Not everyone makes it through the day!” She shouted, as the henchmen stood in silence. “I think I’m fair!” She yelled to the group, tapping the weapon against her chest. “We are a family! Don’t steal from your family! And don’t break security!” She warned, walking around the semi-circle, waving her pistol in the air as the shipment coordinator gurgled and coughed.

  “I’ll be damned! You still talking back!” She shouted looking down at him, then sat on his stomach. “You say something?” She muttered, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against his. “It’s a jungle out there,” she whispered shooting him in the mouth then in the head.

  “Sasha today is payday.” The logistics manager interrupted warily, trying to shift her mood, as she slowly looked up at him with her blood-splattered face.

  “You guys up front. Don’t just stand there, bury this thief!” She ordered sitting on him, wiping her face. “On second thought, throw him in the ocean, feed him to the sharks!”

  “OK, you two. Pick him up, throw him off the dock,” the load supervisor ordered.

  “All right, let’s keep working!” She ordered, standing up.

  “Did you see that?” Rita groused. “The guy in the hat just shot one of his own men.”