Plausible Denial

by Rustmann Jr. , F. W.

  Chapter One Hundred-Thirty

  As soon as Charly Blackburn got Vanquish into the van she hit the gas. He was turning white from loss of blood. He had to get medical attention soon or he would die. But first she had to get away.

  The nearest hospital was in Chiang Rai, would he make it that far? She glanced over at him and told him to buckle up. He was holding his stomach. His shirt was soaked in blood. He looked over at her and smiled. She smiled back. Not good, she thought, he won’t make it that far.

  Her mind spun and she remembered a small clinic in the center of Ban Hin Taek. If she could get him that far they could at least give him first aid to stop the bleeding, and maybe give him some blood.

  She careened down the driveway from Khun Ut’s villa toward the main road. The side doors of the van were wide open and the wind rushed through like a hurricane. She was glad she made Vanquish buckle himself in because he rocked around like a ragdoll when she hit the curves on the narrow road.

  The two guards at the gate looked up as she approached the guard shack at the intersection of the main road. They recognized the speeding security van and one of them started to raise the gate. Then the other one realized that something was not quite right and ordered the van to stop. The gate came back down with a thud.

  Charly slowed momentarily, downshifted and then hit the gas when she approached the gate. She crashed through the gate and the two guards dove for safety.

  She spun out onto the highway and made a hard right turn heading toward the center of town. She almost passed the large red and white cross sign on the left hand side of the road. She hit the brakes hard and spun the wheel sharply left into the gravel parking area in front of the clinic.

  The van ground to a halt at the front entrance and she switched her attention to Vanquish. He appeared to have drifted off to sleep. His chin was resting on his chest and his head rolled back and forth like his neck was broken.

  She jumped out of the van, stuffing the .357 magnum pistol into the back pocket of her jeans, and rushed around to the other side. She ripped the door open and unbuckled the Hmong, who fell limply out of the door and into her arms.

  She cried out for help, but when no one came she eased Vanquish to the ground and ran into the clinic. She returned a few moments later with two men, a female nurse and a stretcher. She quickly explained that Vanquish had been shot and asked them to care for him. While he was being carried inside, she slammed the side doors shut, jumped back into the van and headed south, out of town.

  Near the edge of town she saw the roadblock in the distance and knew she could not bully her way through it. She pulled off to the side of the road to think. Her mind raced. Where could she go? She was certain the other end of the road would be blocked as well.

  And then she remembered. The Porter. The plane had been shot down and crashed on the mountainside across from Khun Ut’s villa. She had heard the staff talking about it and saw the smoke still coming from the site when she made her escape. Mac and Culler Santos were on the mountainside as well. Maybe…

  She turned the van around on the highway and headed back toward the center of town, all the while scanning the mountainside up to her right for signs of the wreckage. Two Huey helicopters circled around in the distance on the side of the mountain. Surely they were looking for Culler and Mac.

  It was almost dark and the looming black mountain made it difficult to see the smoke that would be still emanating from the wreckage.

  She saw a small dirt road off to her right. An emergency vehicle and several other cars and trucks were parked at the base of the road near the highway. Her mind raced. Rescue workers, paramedics, firemen, maybe even American embassy or aviation officials might be up there at the site of the wreck. The Porter was an American owned plane…

  She pulled off the road and parked next to the emergency vehicle. She opened the door and stood on the running board of the van, looking up the side of the mountain for signs of smoke or the wreckage. Nothing. Then she noticed what looked like a wisp of smoke about a mile from where she was standing. That’s got to be it.

  She made a mental note of the location, sat back behind the wheel of the van and headed up the dirt road. She bounced and skidded up the rutted road, wanting to get as close to the location as possible. One of the Hueys passed overhead, causing her to duck instinctively.

  The road ended about four hundred meters up at an old barn. Several cars, probably belonging to rescue workers and investigators working at the crash site, were parked in front. She pulled the van in and parked beside the other cars. She looked up at the mountain, got her bearings, and headed off on foot into the jungle in the direction of the wrecked Porter.

  As she came close to the people, some in uniform, mostly civilian Lao and Thai, a Marine at the edge of the crowd happened to turn around. His face lit up when he saw her.

  He stepped toward Charly and reached for her hand. But Charly stumbled and fell forward into his arms.

  “Ma’am, I’m sure glad to see you.” He was flustered and embarrassed at holding a senior embassy officer in his arms. “Are you alright, Ma’am,” he said, trying to hold her at arms length.

  Charly straightened up and smiled. “I’m fine, Corporal. I didn’t mean to attack you.” She brushed her hair back out of her eyes, which were welling up. The relief at feeling safe at last begin to hit her.

  “Ma’am, you kind of look like shit.” He was immediately contrite. “I mean, I wasn’t, I mean…”

  Charly laughed and grabbed the young embassy guard by the elbow. “I’m sure we both know exactly what you mean, Corporal. Let’s head down and get me back to the nearest safe phone.”

  The Marine called over his shoulder, “Swanson, come with me and Miss Blackburn. Henricks, you and White stay here with the counsel. Don’t let ‘em out of your sight. And get ‘em out of this fucking jungle before dark.” He winced and pulled slightly away. “Jesus, I apologize, ma’am.”

  Charly pulled him back to her side, as the other Marine joined them. “Get me out of this fucking jungle too, Corporal.”

  Chapter One Hundred-Thirty-One

  It was well after midnight when Culler and Mac arrived back near the top of the mountain where they had cached their excess gear. By all appearances, the search, at least on the mountainside, had been called off. The Hueys had returned to the villa and no other search parties had been deployed on the mountain – none that they could detect, anyway.

  They were bone tired, dehydrated, and needed rest, food and drink. Mac spread out a green shelter sheet on the ground and the two men plopped down on it. They lay there, using their packs as pillows, looking up at the star filled sky.

  Culler drank heavily from his Camelbac and munched on a power bar. “So what’s the plan now, general? Steal another car?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t think any more. It’s a big mountain. I think we’re pretty safe as long as we stay under cover and away from the populated areas. I’m not worried about getting us out of here and back across the border into Laos. Colonel Sunthonwet is not the only friend I have in Northeast Thailand. We’ll get out okay.”

  “Well, truth be told, I’m looking forward to getting back to Ft. Lauderdale and the routine work at GSR. I’ve had enough excitement for awhile. This is a comfortable spot. It’s cool, no bugs, nice breeze, I suggest we spend a relaxing evening right here, camping out under the moon and stars.”

  Mac yawned, “You’re right. This is as good a place as any to rest up. I don’t think I could stand up anyway.”

  “Me too. Do you think Charly and Vanquish made it out okay?”

  “My guess is as good as yours. Vanquish didn’t look too good. I don’t know, maybe…”

  Culler pulled more power bars from his backpack and tossed one over to Mac. “Well, there’s nothing more we can do for them. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she looked up at us and mouthed ‘thank you Mac.’ She knew we were here and she knew we could see her. That was truly amazing.�
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  “Yeah, gives me goosebumps. I hope they’re okay. Charly’s a ballsy woman. If anyone can make it out of there safely, she can. And if she makes it out okay, I guess you could say we accomplished everything we came here to do.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Even if Khun Ut recovers from his wound, I think he and his operation are finished. That mission has definitely been accomplished. Getting Charly and Vanquish out of harm’s way would be a real plus. I hope they make it, I really do…”

  They lay there quietly, looking up at the stars, and slowly drifted off into deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter One Hundred-Thirty-Two

  Postscript

  Khun Ut survived his gunshot wound, but the publicity over the shooting down of the CIA Porter, and the deaths that resulted from people using his heroin, ended his reign in the Golden Triangle.

  On direct orders from the Thai Prime Minister, he was arrested at the hospital and brought to Bangkok where he was tried and convicted of heroin trafficking and multiple murders. He was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole and was incarcerated in the infamous Bang Kwang maximum security prison on the banks of the Chao Phraya River north of Bankok.

  Bang Kwang is called the “Big Tiger” by the Thais. It got the name because it ate all the people who entered it.

  Ung Chea moved into Khun Ut’s mountain villa in Ban Hin Taek where he attempted to pick up the pieces of Khun Ut’s much diminished heroin business. With the distribution networks in shambles, he concentrated on the opium growing part of the business, selling the raw opium to other distributers.

  Vanquish died quietly at the clinic in Ban Hin Taek moments after he was dropped off by Charly Blackburn. Months after his death a young American man appeared at the home of his widow and, without explanation, delivered an envelope containing $50,000 in cash. On the same day, another courier delivered a package containing $100,000 to Linda Peoples at her home.

  Edwin Rothmann, the DDO, personally traveled to Chiang Mai to award Charly Blackburn the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the CIA’s highest honor for extraordinary heroism.

  Culler Santos and Harry MacMurphy walked out of the jungle two days later in Ban Mae Sai. They waited for the cover of darkness at the edge of the town and stole an old Toyota pickup truck parked behind a seedy apartment complex. Culler finally got to use his technical skills to hotwire the truck.

  Early the next morning they ditched the pickup in a busy parking lot in Nong Khai, and Mac called an old contact of his who was engaged in smuggling all sorts of people and things back and forth between Laos and Thailand.

  The smuggler took them across the Mekong River in a small fishing boat and then delivered them personally to the familiar Settha Palace Hotel where they relaxed for two days before flying back to Ft. Lauderdale.

  They both looked forward to resuming a life of routine in the GSR offices, and hoped that Edwin Rothmann would not call again too soon.

  Exactly one month after the shooting of Khun Ut, the seemingly unrelated murders of Police Colonel Chatchai Sunthonwet and former Police General Sawat Ruchupan were reported in the Thai press.

  Sunthonwet had been shot once in the side of the head at close range while sitting alone in his police cruiser in downtown Nong Khai; Sawat was found floating face down in his swimming pool in Chiang Mai. His throat had been slashed.

  There were no suspects in either killing.

  ******

  Acknowledgments

  From the time the first word hit a page to publication, my first novel, The Case Officer, was more than thirty years in the making. In that context, the writing of Plausible Denial was a snap.

  The reason was because I learned so much from so many during that lengthy first writing.

  Many of the same people who helped bring that first novel to print, at least in the final stages, also helped in the creation of the sequel.

  One of these people – I really can’t remember who – told me long ago that it takes two things to be a successful fiction writer. First you must have something interesting to say, and second, you must be able to say it well.

  Spending almost a quarter of a century in the CIA’s clandestine service certainly gave me lots of interesting things to write about, but telling these stories well required a lot of help from a lot of people with a lot more knowledge about the literary word than I possess.

  So once again I want to thank my old friend Phil Jennings for his tutelage and fine editing skills; John O’Melveny Woods for his wizardry in bringing a well-designed book to print; David Smith for his masterful cover art work; and Bill and Richard Parker for their guidance on the use of sophisticated military arms and sniper gear.

  And a special shout-out goes to Phil Noreen, the designer and manufacturer of the Noreen “Bad Boy” .338 Lapua semi-automatic sniper rifle, a photo of which is displayed on the back cover.

  About the Author

  F.W. Rustmann, Jr. is a twenty-four year veteran of the CIA’s Clandestine Service. He retired as a member of the elite Senior Intelligence Service (SIS), with the equivalent rank of major general. One of his assignments was as an instructor at the CIA’s legendary covert training facility, “the Farm.” After retiring from the CIA, he founded CTC International Group, Inc., a pioneer in the field of business intelligence and a recognized leader in the industry. His numerous articles on intelligence and counterintelligence have appeared in the Baltimore Sun, Miami Herald, Palm Beach Post, Newsmax and elsewhere. He has been frequently quoted and interviewed in many national and international publications including Time Magazine, USA Today, New York Times, New York Daily News, Far East Economic Review, CNN, FNN, Reuters, Newsmax and the Associated Press, among others. He is the author of the best selling non-fiction book CIA, Inc.: Espionage and the Craft of Business Intelligence, and the novel, The Case Officer. He lives in Palm Beach, Florida.