Table of Contents
Tunnel Rats
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About the author
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“Most of us who served as tunnel rats during the Vietnam War quickly realized that crawling through underground enemy bunkers would be the least of our worries."
—Jim Marett, My Life as a Tunnel Rat
Bangkok, Thailand
Present Day
A short, Asian man stares at Sam Savage throughout the fifteen-hour flight from Newark, New Jersey all the way to Hong Kong. Sam can’t help but notice. The staring continues during the relatively short three-hour hop from Hong Kong to Bangkok. Not that Sam is a paranoid man. You can’t be paranoid and expect to perform your duties as a Sky Marshal effectively. However, that doesn’t mean you aren’t likely to develop a finely tuned built-in danger detector. It also means you need to grow an extra pair of eyes in the back of your head—something Sam was able to do in the killing fields of Afghanistan years ago when working as a CIA operative immediately after two back to back tours as an Army Ranger. But for the past twenty-four hours, Sam has been keeping his own sharp eye on the small, young, intense man—even if the man had no idea he was being surveilled in return.
Under normal circumstances, Sam Savage’s main mission is to keep the hundreds of souls flying aboard a gigantic tubular tin can with wings safe. Safe from terrorists bent on bringing the plane down, safe from other passengers who might cause havoc of one kind or another, even safe from some pilots who would want to commit a strange, yet murderous, kind of suicide by flying the plane into a mountainside or keeping it in the air until it simply runs out of fuel.
On this trip, Sam’s sole mission is a man—a single man by the name of Channy Lin. Having been on the radar of every United States government watchdog alphabet soup acronym outfit from the FBI to DOHS, Channy is suspected of giving rise to a rebirth of the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam, or what’s more widely known as the Viet Cong. Back in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, the purpose of the militant Communist Ho Chi Minh-backing organization was in large to defend themselves against what they considered the imperial invaders—namely France and, later on, the United States.
But today’s version of the Viet Cong—the New Viet Cong—is far different. It’s now a terrorist organization determined to destroy Viet Nam’s newest imperialist invaders—the Chinese and, once again, the U.S. What makes them different from the Viet Cong army of the past is simple. Instead of defending their land from armed invaders, the New Viet Cong seeks to wreak havoc and murderous death on innocent civilians.
Channy has purportedly been in the United States drumming up support for the New Viet Cong, and Sam Savage has been assigned to surveil him at all costs. Is Channy suspected of planning a mass murder by blowing up a passenger jet like ISIS or Al Qaeda has done in the past? It’s entirely possible, and Sam has been instructed to look for any suspicious signs of just such an event—frequent visits to the lavatory, cold staring, Adam's apple bobbing inside the neck, white knuckling a piece of carry-on luggage or a personal electronic device . . .
But in this case, Channy is more likely to be planning something far larger. Like an all-out terrorist attack on Ho Chi Minh City, for instance; which, these days, is packed with western tourists as well as Chinese and U.S. investors. If Sam can follow Channy without the terrorist being the least bit suspicious, he can collect invaluable on-the-ground data on what could be one of the most dangerous terrorist organizations to have sprung out of the early twenty-first century.
Why Bangkok? Sam ponders as he disembarks the plane maybe fifteen feet behind Channy. A distance he maintains on their way to immigration check. He must be working with someone here. An arms dealer maybe. Or an explosives expert. Or hell, maybe he’s picking up cash. Terrorist attacks don’t come cheap.
Standing in the cue at Bangkok International Immigration, his carry-on bag strapped over his shoulder, Sam steals what he considers his first real view of Channy outside the confines of a dimly lit, cramped, 777 Air Bus passenger jet. The man is not big by Western standards. He can’t be more than five-feet-five tops. He’s also slim but wiry. Sam suspects he knows martial arts which would make him as lethal with his hands and feet as he would be with a knife or a firearm . . . or a bomb.
The suspected NVC terrorist is dressed casually, almost like a native Southern Californian in blue jeans, flip flops, and a black t-shirt bearing the 1990s grunge band Nirvana across its front along with the image of a cockeyed drunk smiley face. His face is long and lean, and he sports a thin mustache and a long goatee. He’s got a leather bracelet on, an inexpensive watch, and a wide-brimmed New York Yankees baseball cap sits lazily over a pair of dark, deep eyes that appear wet when he smiles. Sam finds himself thinking that if he didn’t know the young man was an active member of the U.S. government’s terrorist watch list, he might think of him as a pleasant life-loving young man about to enjoy a wonderful extended holiday in beautiful, adventure-filled Thailand.
The line moves slowly. Sam runs a free hand over his three-day razor stubble and across his short, cropped hair. He’s experiencing the usual excitement and adrenaline rush that accompanies having just disembarked an airplane after a very long journey. But he knows the reality of the situation is this—his body is exhausted. However, that’s no excuse for not being on his toes.
As the cue moves along, and the Thai immigration police methodically approve one passport after another, he begins to realize just how hot and humid the jungle climate is. Already, Sam is breaking out in a sweat. He feels his L
evi jeans sticking to his thighs. His khaki work-shirt clings to his sweat-soaked back. Even his carry-on is beginning to feel heavy with the two-and-a-half-pound Colt .45 concealed inside it along with three additional nine-round magazines. About the only things that aren’t feeling heavy and hot are his feet which are covered in a brand-new pair of U.S. Army-issue jungle boots Sam purchased purposely for the mission.
He keeps a close eye on Channy as the suspected terrorist, or Person of Interest (POI), is called to the immigration window and presents his Vietnamese passport to the uniformed Thai officer. Sam can’t help but wonder how good the young terrorist is. Will he begin to sweat when the officer makes him stand still as his face is photographed, while his passport is electronically scanned into the computer, while the beady-eyed stone-faced officer stares him down?
Sam’s dealt with his share of terrorists in the past. Some sweat it out when things become their most tense. He’s seen terrorists work up a lather of perspiration just before detonating a bomb. He’s always considered these types of terrorists to be amateurs and believers. Amateurs because they would gladly bomb innocent bystanders for free and believers because they are fanatical in their belief system, even if the belief system is evil incarnate. But they are also human and humans, most of them anyway, experience profound fear at some point in their lives.
But then, there is the terrorist who is not an amateur. He or she might be a believer, but they are also a pragmatist. They remain cool and do not bend under pressure. They don’t sweat or crumble under pressure. They are as cool and calculating as they come. Their blood runs cold, and they are the worst kind of terrorist there is. Precisely because of the coldness, the lack of humanity, and the lack of respect for human life. They kill not only for their chosen cause but because they profit from it. They derive power from murdering innocent men, women, and children, and they make others do their bidding for them. For this kind of terrorist, life is not precious. It is, instead, a cheap commodity.
As Channy’s passport is stamped with approval for his entry into Thailand, Sam realizes the young man is the latter type of terrorist. Sam not only sees evil in his smile, he recognizes cold calculation, cold indifference, and cold-blooded murder.
Outside in the baggage area, Sam picks up his case. He’s still got his eye on Channy as he, too, grabs his single piece of luggage. Keeping a safe enough distance from the POI, Sam follows Channy out into the airport terminal, through the throngs of travelers, and to the exit after which he hails a taxi.
Now is the time for Sam to make his move or take a real chance on losing his POI.
“Excuse me, partner,” Sam says. “You and I have been traveling together for twenty-four hours. That makes us almost family. How about we share a taxi into Bangkok? It’s cheaper that way.”
Channy stares into Sam’s eyes, not like he recognizes the Sky Marshal from the flight across the Pacific pond, but more like he’s surprised at the offer of sharing a cab. Or so Sam surmises.
“You do speak English?” Sam presses.
Channy nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I was educated in the United States. Boston College.”
Sam slaps Channy on the arm.
“Well then, it’s settled, bro,” he says. “We’re like buddies. Come on, let’s grab this cab.”
Together, the two place their bags in the trunk of the cab then pile into the backseat. Sam taps the driver on the shoulder, instructs him to take them to Bangkok.
And when Channy informs the driver of the name of his hotel, Sam bursts out laughing.
“Hey, how do you like that?” he says. “We’re staying at the same place. Now, what are the odds of that?”
But, of course, Sam’s people back in Washington already secured his hotel reservation based upon specific intel. Intel derived from hacking into Channy’s computer.
Holding out his hand, Sam says, “Sam Savage is the name, cardboard boxes is my game. Corrugated cardboard boxes, to be specific.”
Channy reluctantly takes the hand into his, shakes it, but then quickly releases it.
“You may call me Channy,” he says, a bit under his breath.
Reaching into his pocket, Sam pulls out a phony business card, hands it to the terrorist.
“Glad to know you, Channy,” Sam says, surprised the would-be international outlaw used his real name. But then, why shouldn’t he? Sam adds, “I’m hoping to secure some mega contracts throughout South East Asia. The Chi-Coms are buying up the whole joint, and they’re shipping everything back to the mother country. You know what that means, my friend?”
“What does it mean?” Channy asks, his tone annoyed if not hateful. Exactly the button Sam was hoping to push with his mention of the Chinese.
“It means all those fruits, vegetables, rice, chickens, goats, ducks, cats, dogs, you name it, the Chinese are stealing from South East Asia are gonna need to be packed in something. That’s where I come in.”
Channy turns to Sam. “Good old American Capitalism at its best, isn’t that right, Mr. Savage?”
“Gee whiz, Channy,” Sam says, “you make Capitalism sound like a dirty word. Last I looked, the Chinese were communists. Just like the Vietnamese and the Cambodians.” Pursing his lips. “Correction, the Cambodians are sort of communists, meaning they don’t come right out and admit it.”
Channy laughs. It’s not a happy laugh. More of a bitter, sour laugh.
“China might be a communist dictatorship, but its economic system is more ruthlessly capitalist than yours. They use money to invade my country, as opposed to bombs like the French did to my grandparents and the Americans to my parents.”
“And which country is that, Channy?”
“Vietnam,” he says with pride.
“And what brings you to Thailand?”
Channy plays with the brim on his baseball cap, shifting it from one side of his head to the other, as if the gesture helps him think.
“I’m on business,” he says. “Just like you.”
Sam grins. “Sounds like you’ve got more than a little Capitalist blood in you, son, whether you like it or not,” Sam says.
“I do what I need to survive in an overcrowded world,” Channy says. “I fight for my ideals, and I’m willing to die for them.”
“And which ideals are those?” Sam asks.
“The struggle against naked aggression,” Channy answers. “It’s an age-old idea and an age-old struggle.”
“Wise words for such a young man.”
“Wise words are timeless, don’t you agree?”
For a while, the two just stare out the sedan windows at the flat countryside and the scattered buildings that occupy it.
Until Sam asks, “What were you doing in America? Conducting business there also?”
Channy turns to Sam. “You sure ask lots of questions, Mr. Savage.”
“It’s sort of my thing,” the Sky Marshal says. “I’m a salesman. So, naturally, I like to ask a lot of questions. Helps me get to know someone new. I mean, we’re staying at the same hotel. We should maybe have dinner later. Or even grab us a Thai massage before drinks. Whaddaya say, Channy?”
The POI laughs a little.
“You mean like a Happy Ending Massage?” Shaking his head, glancing out the window. “You Americans, you’ll spend thousands of dollars and fly thousands of miles on behalf of your happy endings.”
Sam gives Channy a friendly elbow.
“Hey, now you’re talking. But just so you know, I don’t cross swords, bro.”
“Are you homophobic, Sam?” Channy says, not without a grin. “But then, if you must know, Channy Lin does not cross swords either.”
“Well, that makes for a very happy beginning, Channy,” Sam says.
The cab drops both men off at the modern, twenty-story hotel situated in the busy city center. All around them, streets are crowded with people, vendors, cars, trucks, and tuck tucks. Channy grabs his luggage from the trunk and starts to make his way inside.
“See you later,
Mr. Savage,” he says.
“Happy ending massages,” Sam barks. “Five PM sharp. See you in the lobby, Channy bro.”
“Sure you will,” Channy says, disappearing through the front revolving doors of the hotel.
Minutes later, Sam is standing in his fifth-floor hotel room, setting up his laptop and portable Wi-Fi router. His .45 is on the table beside the computer. As soon as he has tapped into the Wi-Fi signal, he links into the secure Washington D.C. communications platform and proceeds to send a video call request to his boss. It’s 8:45 in the morning in Bangkok which means it’s 8:45 pm last night back in DC. He also knows, without question, that his boss will still be in the office.
“Was waiting for your call,” says Carl Dater from inside his private office on the fourth floor of the Department of Homeland Security building. “How was the flight?”
“Long and uneventful,” Sam says.
“Long can’t be helped, and uneventful is a blessing,” Dater says.
Dater is a few years older than Sam. His head is naturally bald, but the bottom half of his skull is covered with short, cropped dark hair. He wears round horn-rimmed glasses, and since it’s late, he's removed his jacket and rolled up the shirt sleeves on his white button-down, the ball-knot on his black and red tie is also loosened.
“I assume you and Mr. Channy have met by now?” Dater goes on.
“In the flesh,” Sam acknowledges. “He didn’t sleep a wink on the way over which means I didn’t sleep a wink.”
“Poor baby,” Dater says, not without a grin. “You want me to send someone over to straighten out your panties?”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, boss man,” the Sky Marshal says. “As for Channy, we shared a cab to the hotel. Later on, we’re going to get massages and dinner together.”
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