Empire of the Dragon

by David L. Golemon

  “Beer,” Professor Lee said, as most of the citizens of this magical place moved off to finish their days’ business. “Brewed from an ancient Chinese recipe.”

  Ryan accepted the offered crystal blue glass from a young girl who was as beautiful as any young woman he had ever seen. He sniffed the beer and then tasted it. He made a satisfactory ‘ah’, and then smacked his lips. “I sense the Heineken company may have a beef with your brew-masters over proprietary property.”

  “We pay little attention to the worlds legalities here. What was it Captain McIntire called you? Oh, yes, Commander Ryan,” Lee said as he gave Jason a wry smile and then moved off.

  “If I’m not mistaken here, pal, I don’t think we’re the only ones not being entirely straightforward about certain truths.”

  Lee still had the smile on his face as Jason spoke.

  Anya reached out and pulled Charlie Ellenshaw’s arm down as he started to consume his third glass of beer, as five or six of the small children and teens laughed and giggled almost out of control at the tall man’s funny hair and even funnier headgear.

  “You need to slow down, Professor,” Anya said. “I think you need to eat something before you get totally shitfaced.”

  “I’m facing our circumstance the best way possible for the moment,” Ellenshaw said as he pulled the glass back and drained it.

  “Circumstance?” Professor Birnbaum asked, quite enjoying the beer himself.

  Ellenshaw finished the glass and then handed it over to a waiting teen to take away. “Yes, circumstance. How do you think this society has kept the largest secret in the history of the world for so long?” He saw the questioning faces around him and then shook his head as he finally removed the ridiculous Pith helmet. “Our circumstance surrounds the fact that we will never be allowed out of this valley alive.” Crazy Charlie smiled at each shocked person in turn, and then happily snatched another beer from a passing teen. “Cheers.”

  They watched Ellenshaw drink his beer as they realized the crazed, white-haired cryptozoologist was right. Ryan quickly lost his appetite for the dark brew he held and allowed it to pour from his glass.

  “I miss Mendenhall. Charlie is becoming a little depressing these days.”

  “All of this…all of it, will not be able to stand up to the brutal force my country can bring to bear. They will have little choice on whether to cooperate with the modern world. You can feel the raw power here in this place. An ancient power, possibly an unstoppable force.”

  Sarah was getting tired of the Anderson imposter and his bravado. “Its amazing that you overlook that very same power you speak of,” she said as she watched the citizenry close shops and started to wander off to their carved-out homes of stone and wood surrounding the city center. She was amazed that the trees were even waving in a breeze that could not possibly be here inside the most immense cave system in the world. “Do you think that this society, that has lived under the noses of one of the most powerful nations in world history, did so by just asking to be left alone?”

  “Obviously they use some form of illusionary science, young lady,” Anderson said. “Perhaps the Chinese don’t even know they are here. They can’t see or detect them.”

  “I think Sarah just made her point, you Commie prick,” Anya said, as she once again pulled another glass of beer out of Ellenshaw’s hand, much to his consternation. “If they can hide this magnificent city from Chinese, American and Russian satellites, not counting Mongolian hordes and peasants, what chance do you think your people have of finding them?”

  Anderson lost the confidence in his argument as he looked around at the ten-mile-long and half mile-high structure. He could not hold the looks of the others as his plan for glory just evaporated with the Israeli woman’s words. Sarah and the others moved off to follow Professor Lee to whatever fate these amazing people had waiting for them.

  It was Ryan who had just caught the reference as he ran to catch up with the others.

  “Commie prick? Uh, did me and Charlie miss something?”

  Chapter Six

  Pi Biehn, Laos

  After meeting with a contact inside Ho Chi Minh City, the small man had pulled what strings he could to get a special operations helicopter for a covert joyride into a foreign land. The French-made Aérospatiale Gazelle flew low over the fast-flowing Mekong River. The man in the Gazelle’s co-pilot seat sat in deep thought. The information he had received from an old combat friend from special operations had made very little sense until he dug a little deeper into the area he was headed. His friend had informed him of a drug cartel’s safehouse in Pi Biehn, Laos. The safehouse was also used by Vietnam’s former ally against the Americans, the Russians. After reading the report and the description of the area Captain Everett had described, Van Tram had concluded that the safehouse may be his only lead.

  The Vietnamese sniper was out on a limb and he knew it. If it was discovered that he had gone rogue in his investigation, no matter how the Vietnamese government was trying to modernize and change to the point they could join the west in shaking off the yoke of communism, he could very well have that limb he was out on cut away, sending him to a firing squad, national hero or not. He knew he was not very well trusted after his dealings in working with the Americans in the planet’s war against the Grays. Heroism only goes as far as loyalty. Right now, he was torn between two loyalties; one was to his struggling nation, the other to the man he most respected above all others—Colonel Jack Collins. Sometimes there was an even higher calling than patriotism. Not only did the world owe the Colonel, Tram personally was a deep debtor to the man.

  That was not the only concern that Tram was in deep thought about. It was the second item he had discovered in the Vietnamese dossier on the area he was headed into. When he had examined what he had thought was the file on Jack Collins, he was shocked to find out it wasn’t his friend’s dossier, but his father’s. The confusion was spreading in his mind as he failed to see the reasons why his government would have a file on Jack’s father. After an hour of heavy reading, he soon discovered the reasons why. Collins senior was a very important Special Forces operative for the Americans. Captured in 1972, the Vietnamese government had turned him over, at special request, to their Russian allies. The reason for this was not explained in the short dossier. It was obvious that, with the American combat forces pulling out of the war, his own government found very little interest in keeping the young American Captain, so they instead turned him over to Russian intelligence. The exchange was done at the location he was now trying to get to. Not because of any intention by the Russians, but for the lone reason it was their only safehouse in Laos for conducting the Russian drug trade out of Laos and Cambodia. It was the Russian Golden Triangle connection. That was his only lead in finding his lost American friend. That and the location as described by Everett.

  The pilot spoke to the sergeant through his headphones as the Gazelle shot low over the dark waters of the Mekong. “We have a Laotian river garrison coming up in three miles. If they detect us, we’ll have to turn back.”

  Tram looked at his old friend who was the most experienced insertion pilot he had ever known. “If they detect us, you return, my friend. As for me, I will have to swim.”

  “If they detect us, we’ll both be swimming, which is a good thing since the fires covering our bodies would be put out when we go diving into the Mekong.” The pilot looked over at his friend and smiled, easing Tram’s apprehension about his private invasion. “By the way, it is not like you to go anywhere without that damn American antique rifle.”

  Tram offered the pilot an irritating look as the Gazelle swung lower to the river. His gift from Jack Collins, while on attached duty to the American field teams down in South America, had been an ancient World War II weapon that Tram had fallen instantly in love with. The venerable M-14 Garand rifle was so inaccurate for most soldiers at along distance, that very few had ever mastered the weapon for anything other than close-range fire. But C
ollins’ gift was one Tram loved. Instantly he had become the most accurate sniper in the world with a weapon without a scope. He treasured the Garand as much as his friendship with the American Colonel.

  “I may have to egress out of Laos rather quickly. My weapon would have slowed me down. I may be able to blend in out of uniform, but even in the Golden Triangle it’s not too healthy to be seen armed amongst the drug killers of the region.”

  “Well, I hope you have that pistol ready, because we are being painted by the damn Laotians.”

  Tram glanced over and saw the red flashing warning light and the direction the radar ‘paint’ was coming from.

  “Hover and I will jump from here. You need to escape.”

  “And ruin my reputation as the greatest pilot in all of Vietnam? My friend, just tighten your harness and watch what magic your friend can provide to your criminal enterprise.”

  Before he moved the collective to the left to avoid the sweep of the Laotian radar, bright red tracers lit up the darkening sky. Tram involuntarily ducked as the rounds came within feet of the helicopter’s canopy. The pilot jerked the collective to the left and went so low to the Mekong that his left landing skid skimmed the water.

  “Where did you learn to fly this way?” Tram asked as he held on for dear life.

  The pilot swung the black helicopter back to the left as the tracers found them. The four-bladed bird again skimmed the water as Tram felt three or four bullets impact on the airframe.

  “American war movies.”

  “You mean the war against us?”

  “Of course, we use them as training films at the academy. What better helicopter pilots to learn from than the very men who invented air assault methods?”

  The Gazelle suddenly climbed up and over an almost solid line of tracer fire. Finally, Tram felt relieved as the Gazelle broke out over open jungle and the Laotian fire was left in their wake.

  “Now, who’s the best pilot you know?”

  Tram was about to say something totally different than what the hot shot helicopter pilot wanted to hear, but he decided to keep Commander Jason Ryan’s name out of the conversation for political reasons. “You’re definitely the craziest.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Tram saw the lights of Pi Biehn ten miles ahead. He reached into his civilian coat and brought out a small electronic pad and clicked it on. The pad had been another gift from the Event Group when he had been assigned to them in Antarctica for mapping purposes, and Tram had kept the system as he had nothing like it in his own army. He held the pad out to the pilot.

  The small glowing circle was highlighted. “That’s damn close to the center of town.”

  Tram smiled as he finally saw worry in the arrogant pilot’s eyes. “It’s a small park just on the outskirts. Twenty minutes’ walk to the location of the Russian safehouse.”

  “Okay, I hope there are not a lot of telephone and electrical lines in the area.”

  “This is Laos, not Paris.”

  The pilot reached out over his console and turned off the Gazelle’s anti-collision lights. Tram was now worried that they would snag an electrical line as they sped toward their destination in total blackness. Suddenly the pilot pulled back on his collective as the rear landing assembly snagged one of those nonexistent powerlines. The line grew taut, and then the wheel simply rolled over it with only a small slowing of speed from the French-made bird.

  “That was close!”

  “There’s the park,” Tram said pointing down below. “Looks empty.”

  “Until the drug dealers start to get curious,” the pilot said as he started to ease the Gazelle down onto the sparse grass of the park.

  Tram didn’t waste time on goodbyes to his friend. He slapped him on his right shoulder and was out of the door before the helicopter’s skids touched down. The Gazelle sprang back into the air as its turbine screamed in protest. Van Tram moved quickly away to get shy of the park’s only two tower lights as he sped for the tree line that surrounded the small town. He knelt down and again looked at his mapping pad. The small glowing circle was only two miles distant. He replaced the notepad and then checked his only weapon—a small and very lightweight Ruger EC9s Semi-Auto Pistol. It was light for a reason—it only held seven rounds in a clip, plus one in the chamber. Tram didn’t like pistols, but knew he needed a light one. He checked it and then slid it into the back of his belt as he started to move away from the park.

  After an hour and a half of ducking for cover and avoiding anyone on the dirt roads of the town, Tram was able to find a safe spot across from his objective. He reached into his coat and brought out a small pair of binoculars and scanned the property. It was a rundown three-story structure made of tin and clapboard. As he spied the building, he saw several windows aglow with light. There seemed to be no movement on any of the floors. He was starting to become concerned when he noticed no guards of any kind roaming the property. Tram lowered the glasses in deep thought. If Jack was here, it would seem the Russians who held him were not that concerned with keeping his location secured. He looked around the surrounding buildings. None looked to be occupied. He was just thinking of moving his vantage point to the front of the dilapidated structure when he detected movement to his front. He brought the small field glasses back to his trained eyes. He smiled. He saw one man step out onto a back-porch area. The large man relieved himself off into the bushes below and then stepped back inside. He again lowered the glasses. The man was at least six feet five inches, a little too large for a Laotian. He counted the steps to the back-door area and saw that he could get to the area without much risk of discovery.

  Tram made ready to move when he saw the sensor in a tree not fifteen feet from him. He shook his head, angry at himself for being naïve enough to think that a Russian drug cartel would have human security only. He recognized the heat sensor and night vision camera system. The camera was remote and thus far he hoped he had not set off a Russian security man’s curiosity. He waited. Finally, the camera and sensor moved to the right, away from his location and Tram was able to breathe once more. Still, he thought he could time any movement to the angle of the system. He heard a snapping sound behind him and he drew his Ruger and waited. The noise did not occur again. A cat, he suspected. He looked up and then, when the camera and sensor moved left, Tram sprung through the scarcity of trees and squat-ran to the concrete steps of the back-porch. He slid onto his knees and knelt in the dark. He froze as the rear door opened once more and the light was cast outside. He held his breath as a stream of urine splashed down right in front of him. He shook his head at the undignified greeting he was receiving. So much for the glory of rescuing a friend. The flow of urine ended, the sound of the door opening came once more and then the light was again drawn back into the safehouse. He took a deep breath. It seemed this may not be the way inside. If every guard was close enough to the door for restroom purposes, the odds were against his using that way as gaining entrance. He was about to move back into the tree line when he saw a light come on in a basement window.

  As Tram thought, he knew the odds had again swung back into his favor. The basement would be the logical location for any prisoner to be found. He may have caught a break. He slowly moved to the small frame of the window and tried to look inside. The yellow tinted light was right in his eyes, and as a sniper he knew that the night vision he so craved was momentarily lost to him. He leaned back away from the small portal and laid back against the clapboard wall. He was now realizing his plan had major flaws. He needed intel from the inside that he was not going to get. It would be like sneaking into a beehive. It just couldn’t be done covertly.

  Tram was trained as a stand-off weapon. He could kill from up to three miles distance with the right weapon. He looked down at the small Ruger and shook his head. He had been so anxious to assist his friend that he had not thought out his plan. He moved back to the safety of the lee of the porch and went again to his knees. He had to think. His
eyes roamed the perimeter of the grounds. There were three old and rusted out Citroen sedans from the old French years in the region, and also several rows of old tires stacked, and it was these that acted as a barrier of sorts that guarded the safe house from neighbors’ prying eyes. He was growing frustrated at himself. He was now starting to believe he would need at least a squad-sized assault team to get inside and accomplish what it was he set out to do. He saw the camera and sensor in the tree where he had been moments before. He listened and heard the whine of the small electric motor as it moved. Then the idea hit him. He could at least get a count of the number of men in the back portion of the safe house. He again reached into his jacket and this time he brought out the only accompaniment to his Ruger—a small cylindrical tube that he screwed onto the muzzle. His weapon was now silenced. He aimed.

  To the trained Tram the weapon didn’t seem to be silenced at all. A very loud ‘clack’ sounded as the small Ruger discharged and then recycled another round into the chamber. Then it was the extremely loud whine and the impact of the bullet as it struck the camera and sensor. He winced as the pieces of the assembly fell to the ground. He lowered his head and waited for the enemy to pinpoint his precise location.

  The back door soon opened, and he heard words being spoken in Russian. He understood very little of the language but knew he heard the words ‘damn kids’ in there somewhere. Evidently, the safehouse had problems with local neighborhood hooligans. At least he hoped. He heard the footsteps of two men as they descended the concrete steps. There were curses as Tram saw the Russians up-close for the first time. His eyes widened when he saw the true height of these men. To Tram, they were like giants as they moved toward the tree line to examine the damage. He saw the two men start to look around as one of them picked up the smashed camera lens.