by Jeff Long
He went on about its armament, travel range, and the thickness—or thinness—of its armored skin. “They were death traps if you hit a mine or caught a rocket.” Molly quit listening. She could not get over the power of the trees. Sixty feet, six stories high, in thirty years. Eleven tons.
Duncan, the dedicated scientist, went to one of the terraces and opened his steel briefcase to take notes and sketch on his pad.
The three brothers retired to the staircase in a smudge of cigarette smoke, stricken with superstition or just discussing the possible profit to be made. The market in American bones from the Vietnam era was not something the DOD talked about, Molly had learned, but they paid well for the real thing.
Samnang alone did not seem awestruck. He had unwittingly made their fire under the dead vehicle and now began shifting it to a more suitable place. A few at a time, he carried the logs with their smoldering tips to the base of a broad, flat terrace and blew the flames back to life.
Molly noticed him. His simple act declared acceptance. Everything was changed, and yet nothing. For all their differences, they were staying. He had grasped that fact. They needed a center. The fire was that, an anchor for their camp.
“This is only one of them,” Kleat said. “We’re looking for nine men, though. There has to be a second track somewhere.”
The canopy didn’t seem to be hiding any more of them. Molly looked up among the ganglia of limbs and vines, and this appeared to be the forest’s sole catch.
She stood back and faced it as if facing the Sphinx. That’s how it seemed, like a beast in the middle of the desert. A riddle in metal skin. They had come for bones and found a fortress. They had looked in the treetops and found a chariot. What did one have to do with the other? Some hidden hand had sewn them together, but why?
She drew out her camera and telephoto lens and sighted through the long barrel. The ACAV leaped at her. Tipped slightly downward and canting to its right, it hung up there with its machine gun aimed straight at her. She took the shot and stepped to the side, out of the line of fire.
Meandering, angling for the best shots, she ransacked the track with her high-tech spyglass. The details bounded out at her. A ramp at the rear flapped open like a drawbridge. Beside the neatly stenciled U.S. ARMY, graffiti vowed maximum savagery. There was another gun shield behind the main turret, but this one lacked a barrel in the slot.
A man was watching her from the roof of the vehicle.
It didn’t register in the first instant.
She saw him, but didn’t see him.
Her mind rationalized the face as a knot of wood, or a distant statue. His eyes were right on her, and she accepted them as bulbs on a limb, or openings in the leaves.
But then his nostrils moved, nothing else, just the center of his watching face, and she realized he was taking her scent.
“Christ,” she said.
Her hand jerked. The camera moved, but not before she hit the shutter release. In or out of focus, she didn’t know. She lifted the camera back to her eye, searching, zooming, not certain she wanted to see him again.
Duncan was at her side in moments.
Gone, he was gone. Her hands were shaking, next to worthless for holding the telephoto steady.
Kleat came over.
“A man,” she said. “I saw him, his face, up there.”
“Bullshit.” But Kleat’s gun appeared. He held it in a two-handed grip, half raised.
“See for yourself.” She fiddled with the display. There was the face, or almost a face.
“You got one,” Duncan congratulated her. “Too bad he moved.”
“One what?”
“A gibbon, it looks like. A pileated gibbon. They’re all but extinct east of the Mekong. The hill tribes loved them to death. Good meat, I hear.”
Kleat holstered his gun. “A monkey,” he said.
She stared at the lighted image. The focus was ragged. The turret details were perfectly sharp, but the face was a blur, barely there at all. It was charcoal gray and, granted, simian in some measure. But it wasn’t quite the face she’d seen.
“Let me see,” said Kleat. She passed him the camera, thinking he wanted to study the image. Instead he brought it to his eye like a marksman.
“You’ve done it again,” he said after a minute.
“What?”
“First the pilot, now this.” He handed her the camera. “That’s a skull.”
She steadied the camera. There the sloped breastplate, a fading white army star, up higher the snout of the machine gun, and the turret—empty now where the face had been. And behind that, all but hidden along the upper shell, she saw the head, tucked within the shadows, unmoving.
Hard and glossy, it rested on a stubby metal pole. It looked freshly plucked from the battlefield. Through her lens, the eyes gazed down. Kleat took the camera.
“The Vietnamese must have found them,” Kleat said. “Or the fucking KR. Those poor guys. There could be more of them inside.” The idea quickened in him. “Someone’s got to go up there.”
“That will be a trick,” Duncan said.
“Get one of the boys to do it.”
“They’ll never go,” Duncan said. “Especially with a dead man up there.”
“Bargain with them.”
“Don’t force this, John. I keep telling you, part of them still lives in the tenth century, with curses and evil eyes and flying spirits. The locals give their babies charms to protect them. They stack firewood against the door to keep out the dead. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories.”
Kleat wheeled around and walked quickly to the brothers. For a moment, Molly didn’t miss her camera. Then she realized his game.
“He’s showing them the statues,” she told Duncan.
They hurried after Kleat, but the damage was done. They were holding her camera and smearing the display with their fingertips. They were excited.
“What have you done?” said Duncan.
“I just gave you and me the world,” Kleat said. “Now talk to them. Get whatever you want out of it, all the supplies in the world, just as long as you get us into that track.”
“Forget it.”
“Sam, get over here,” Kleat said. “You tell them. The place is huge. They could search for days and never find these statues. And they don’t have days. The typhoon’s coming. We know where the statues are. I need someone to run a rope up to that vehicle. That’s for starters. They’re businessmen. Let’s do business.”
Samnang relayed the message. Doc, the eldest brother with the full sak—the suns and flames and lines and dots from his toes to his throat—glanced up at the ACAV and said, “Te.” No way.
“Come on,” Kleat said in English. He pointed at the camera display. “You want these? We’ll show you where they are. One of you street heroes, come on. All you have to do is climb up. Tell them, they don’t even have to go inside. All we need is a rope to it. We’ll take it from there.”
Doc said something. Samnang said, “They want your gun.”
“My gun?”
“They are saying that. The statues and your Glock.”
“Why? We’re already outgunned, three to one.”
Outgunned? thought Molly.
“What does it matter?” said Duncan. “If the bones are there, you get what you want.”
“And if they’re not? Tell them no statues until we get inside the track,” Kleat said. “Tell them.”
“They understand,” said Samnang.
Doc spoke. Vin handed the camera to them. Duncan and Samnang exchanged a wary look.
“Here’s your camera. They’re requesting to look at your gun. An exchange.”
“The hell.” Kleat’s voice flattened out. A vein appeared on his scalp.
Molly took her camera.
“They want me to hand it to them?”
“Just do it,” Duncan said.
“You know what they’re doing,” said Kleat.
“Not necessarily, John. Kee
p calm.”
“They’re pirates.”
“Don’t raise your voice, John.”
He was going to pull his gun on them, Molly realized with sudden alarm. They were baiting him to do it. They were waiting for him. Their yellow eyes stared off into the distance. They toked their cigarettes like Marlboro men. But their fingers had shifted on their rifles. They were getting the weight of their weapons, the arc of their descent, the timing, the targets. The signs were all there.
She could almost picture herself lying among the dead.
“I’ll go,” she said suddenly.
Her voice startled them.
Kleat narrowed his eyes, suspicious of everyone now. “Up there?”
“You don’t understand.” She smiled large and stepped between the men. “I’m good at this. It’s one of the hats I wear. I hang off rocks for a living. Mountain photography. Calendars and magazines. I’m not the greatest climber in the world, but I can manage a tree.”
“No,” said Duncan.
She smiled at him. “Baby steps,” she said.
She took over, chattering brightly, getting them distracted. Samnang began relaying her decision to the brothers. Vin’s eyes grew big. She reached for him and brought him down into their midst, rifle and all, disarming them one at a time.
“I’ll need a rope,” she said. “Do you have a rope?”
Samnang droned on softly. Vin nodded his head and started for the truck.
“And you,” she said to Kleat. “Give me your gun.”
Kleat backed away from her. “Now you?”
“I’m not going up there without some protection. Who knows what’s living in there?”
“Forget it.”
“You want me to fix a rope? That’s my price. A loaner.”
“I’ll watch your back.”
She held out her hand. “Right now.” She added quietly, “You son of a bitch.”
Samnang halted his translating.
She could see Kleat’s gears turning. He could refuse her. But she was his only hope, and he knew it. They were locked on to his every move, and his one chance at keeping his gun was to give it away. She would take it out of the brothers’ reach as well as his…for the time being. He handed her his Glock.
“Is the safety on?” she asked, looking at both sides of the gun.
“It’s a Glock,” he said.
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“It’s all internal,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
She tucked the gun into the back of her waist, out of sight, out of mind.
The brothers’ hands relaxed on their rifles, just as she’d hoped. “Keep this for me,” she said to Duncan, and gave him her camera.
He laid one hand on top of hers, and she was shaking. His touch steadied her. He took the camera. “You want me to get a picture of you?” he asked.
That was a first. None of her subjects had ever bothered to ask if she wanted a record of herself.
21.
Vin returned with a coil of frayed, greasy brown Perlon. Molly walked to the tree and everyone followed. She turned it into a high-wire act, something to lift them from the morning of threats.
Lodged in the middle branches, the ACAV looked like a strange, small fish caught in talons of coral. She circled the tree, running her palms over the tan and white bark. “This will do.”
She shook the coil loose and, without looking, tied a bowline around her waist. She shifted the knot around to the small of her back so the rope would trail behind, not between her legs. She wouldn’t need it for anything until she got to the vehicle. The brothers squatted down to watch through a cloud of fresh smoke. Razzle-dazzle ’em, she thought.
She shucked her shoes and socks and placed them neatly by the tree. The bare feet were for extra grip, but also a bit of theater. Patting the dewlap folds of wood, she hopped up onto a massive root. “Feed me the rope,” she said. “Make sure there aren’t any knots.” Duncan stepped forward. She started off.
The climbing went quickly. The men grew smaller, their heads tipped back, mouths open. Partway up, double-checking her grip, she faked a slip. That got an audible grunt from the audience. “No problem.” She pretended to grapple her way past a perilous crux.
It was easy. The tree offered itself to her in phases, its knots and boles and branches forming a natural ladder. A whole metropolis appeared in the canopy, with limbs and looping vine bridges inter-locking the great towers of trees.
It felt good to open her wings, good to get away from the men. Things seemed much saner up here. It occurred to her that she could keep on climbing. She could vanish into the upper branches and outwait the gunslingers.
The thought grew into a temptation. Untie from the rope and she could enter the canopy and they’d never get her back. The place abounded with food and niches for shelter. Nuts and mangos and other exotic fruits nestled like Christmas ornaments.
“Molly.” Her name, so faint. Like leaves rustling.
The forest was so beautiful, and when she glanced down, her holds had withdrawn into the tree. Pathways led off along the great branches. She felt drugged.
The forest was her answer, she comprehended. But it went beyond that. The message built like a heat. All she had to do was take to the trees. Forget the men, they were deceivers. Forget the rains, they would pass. Forget the past. The forest would provide.
The ACAV broke her fantasy of dancing off into the heights.
More quickly than she’d expected, its squared metal corners and sprockets and pipes and bulldozer tread emerged around the corner. Her temptation snapped. This brute thing—not escape—was what she’d come for.
The metal ramp at the back invited her like a sturdy porch. One step and she would be inside.
“Moll-lee.” The rope tugged at her waist. It was Duncan, invisible beneath the foliage. He called again, more insistent this time.
She took a breath. It was like pulling herself from a dream. “I’m good,” she shouted down.
She peered at the inside of the thing. An open hatch on top helped illuminate the recesses. Stenciled warnings read DANGER—MONOXIDE GAS. She sniffed the air, and there was only the slight odor of fuel and oil and fertilizer. Dung, she realized. Animal dung. The green dragon had become a nest for forest creatures.
“I’m going in,” she called down.
“What?”
She pulled up some slack and made the small leap, landing lightly, barefoot, on the cool metal. The wedged vehicle didn’t shift an inch.
The rope tugged again, Duncan fretting.
“I’m off,” she shouted, and realized that the climbing lingo might confuse him. “I’m in. I’m up.” She untied from the rope and knotted it to an eyebolt on the back of the ACAV. “Come on up. The rope’s anchored.”
Branches had infiltrated through the open cupola, and white orchids with red pistils grew here. Butterflies spiraled above the war machine, their wings bright blue and the size of her hand. Death and life. She wanted her camera.
She peeked on top, and the head was jammed onto an exhaust pipe. Its eyes and face were aimed forward, and she was grateful for that. Let the others deal with it.
As it turned out, once she’d hung the rope straight down from the ACAV, the line was too greasy and thin for them to ascend. Kleat wrapped it around his fists and hauled himself up a few feet, and the rope creaked, but that was as high as he could get. Duncan had no more luck. The brothers wanted nothing to do with it. Without a climber’s Jumars to grip it, the rope was only good for a one-way ride, down.
“You’ve done your job,” Duncan called up to her. “Come down.”
“Wait,” Kleat shouted. “What about the bones?”
“It’s too dark to see,” she called out.
“We’ll send up a flashlight,” he said. “And a bag for the bones.”
That was the part she’d been hoping to avoid. “My camera,” she shouted down on a whim. Through it she could filter any horrors be
fore having to touch them.
“What?”
“I want my camera. And some water. And a PowerBar.”
The burlap sack came to about fifteen pounds. She pulled it up hand over hand, and someone, Duncan, no doubt, had included the bag of M&M’s. There were two more burlap sacks stuffed inside. Kleat was expecting a lot of bones.
She sat on the edge of the ramp with her back to the ACAV, her bare feet swinging, and ate the PowerBar and candy and drank the water. Then she stood and turned on the flashlight and went to work inside.
22.
Over the next hour, Kleat called up periodically, impatient. “What’s keeping you?” she heard his tiny voice say. “Are they all there?”
Duncan only wanted to know if she was okay.
She didn’t answer them. A ripple of thunder sounded in the far distance. That meant it was approaching noon. The monsoon was working up its nerve. Or else the typhoon was nearing. Would it announce itself or just open up on them?
She was thorough, exploring the deepest bay of the ACAV, poking with a stick where she was afraid of snakes. With each discovery, it became more obvious that the armored box held only questions. Their answers hid elsewhere.
She saved the head for last, climbing onto the top through the opening with the machine gun.
After an hour, there was no more to find.
She started to wrap the rope over one shoulder to descend, then had a thought. Untying the anchor knot, she threaded the end of the rope through the pistol’s trigger guard, and retied the rope. Then, dangling the burlap sack from her belt, she backed off the ramp and rappelled to the ground.
As she descended from the canopy, she looked across to the top of the terraced walls and saw the city waiting for her. Her view lasted only a few feet, then she sank lower into the terminus.
Kleat and Duncan waited for her at the bottom.
“Well?” said Kleat.
She opened the sack like Santa Claus and handed him the head. “You were wrong,” she said.
Kleat held it at arm’s length. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a trophy. They had it mounted on their exhaust pipe.”