Ransom Drop

by Mike Sullivan

  “Okay, what do you want to know,” he said, coming over to a desk where she sat writing.

  “Who were the men killed at the airport?”

  “Terrorists…but we can’t be sure…so don’t put it down like that. Just call them alleged terrorists.”

  “Names?”

  “No names now. I’ll call them in later after my press conference. That way it’ll appear like the names have been leaked to the media. The media being you and your BBC friends, see where I’m going with this?”

  “I do. But I don’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my interview will be anti-climactic. Like getting the story second hand.”

  “Not if I don’t mention names at the press conference and then give them to you afterwards. That way you get a story exclusive with names, photos if you like, and where the terrorists came from. You’ll be the first to know. That should do wonders for your ratings—and your career.” The word career was said with a bit of sarcasm.

  “I see what you’re doing. But why can’t you just tell me the names now? It will save you a phone call, and what if the line is bugged?”

  Tint thought a minute, considered his options, and said, “Okay. But no radio report until after the press conference.”

  He wrote the names down on a slip of paper and handed them to her. She stared down and read the names. Kanoa Lee. Malak Savane, Arun Vannaseng.

  Chapter Thirty

  Morning broke over the horizon in a faint silvery glow, capped on the edges by total darkness. Now the highway rose up a steep incline bordered by pine forest on each side. The bike shook and sputtered going up another steep hill and howled going down the other side. Seabury held the bike on the road and managed to maintain a speed of fifty miles per hour.

  They sped in and out of fertile valleys, with wide sweeping views and distant mountains. As they continued north, Seabury noticed the drop in temperature. The air was fresh and clear and cold. There were forest smells and sounds everywhere around them. Small and large animals; boar, deer, monkeys, elephants and tigers scurried and crashed back into the dense, impenetrable silence, lost in matrix of thick, overhanging vines and shrubs and bushes on the floor of the tropical rainforest.

  Teasing, Seabury shouted back over the roar of the engine at Tory. “You look terrific in your Hmong hillside garb. Remind me to take a picture when we get to Phonsavan.”

  She fired back, “I like your glasses. Are those bi-focals? Or have your eyes slipped out of their sockets?”

  “I’ll remember that remark when it comes time to pay you.”

  “I thought Robert Hong was paying me.”

  “Oh, that’s right. He is.”

  “They say the first thing to go on a man is his mind.”

  “Is that a sexist remark? If it is, there are places for people like you.”

  They laughed. They bantered back and forth a little more until his face grew serious. They’d gone unchecked through the town of Kasi. Twenty-four miles north of Kasi was Phon Khoun, a mountain village and former French outpost. It served as the junction for highways 13/and 7. The last road sign indicated another fifteen miles before arriving at the junction. Seabury had no idea about the security posted there. Would the police be waiting? A car pulled around and passed them. Its monoxide plume hung in the air momentarily and blew back in a harsh, acrid smell that filled Seabury’s nostrils.

  He grimaced and wrinkled his nose under the toxic assault. He slowed to allow the car to get far enough ahead before he increased his speed. As his eyes dropped down leisurely to the side mirror, he noticed the morning light behind him had quickly changed. It went from a pale blue color to a Super Nova that exploded across the windshield of the military jeep that roared up behind them. The jeep closed fast, like a guided missile carrying a heavy payload.

  “Hang on,” Seabury called back to Tory. “I’ll swing off somewhere up ahead and try to lose them in the forest.”

  He gunned the bike and headed for the dark seclusion of the woods when he realized that he wasn’t going to outrun them on the underpowered bike. Somehow their cover had been breached. Now they were recognizable in their Hmong garb and the Lao military weren’t playing games. He and Tory were fugitives and fugitives, in this part of the world where life was cheap, were considered fair game—like animals hunted in the forest.

  Tory clung to his waist. They rounded the next curve, then another. Seabury spotted a narrow opening up ahead among the trees, a small animal trail with dense patches of timber on either side. Enough space to let the bike through, but not the jeep. He arrowed the bike toward the trail but the jeep’s driver must have realized what Seabury was doing, because just before Seabury left the highway, the jeep’s front bumper nudged the back tire and sent the bike veering back onto the highway. The bike shook, fishtailing as it shot forward with the impact.

  Moments later Seabury heard the air-horn. It blasted through the morning air, screaming down at them. Bhoah! Bhoah! Bhoah!

  The sound shot down from the roof of a large commercial logging truck in the inbound lane-moving fast, barreling down on them. Its massive tires growled and screeched as the driver slammed on the brakes. Clouds of white smoke poured out from beneath the undercarriage. Overheated brakes hissed and sparked. Flames shot out from under the tires but the truck kept coming. The air-horn blared insistently. Tory cried out.

  Seabury struggled to get the bike under control. In that instant, he thought they’d topple over and crash, go spinning like a top under the massive wheels and end up crushed to death there on the highway. Seabury looked up and saw the driver flash a look of horror inside the front window. The air brakes locked and the truck screeched and skidded on the road. Dark patches of rubber crushed into the pavement.

  The bike shook and shivered as it slowed. He jammed his left foot down hard on the road. A sharp rubber burn tore back from the heel of his boot, but the bike remained upright. The momentum of the sputtering engine and Seabury’s foot dragging on the pavement caused a rapid deceleration in the bike’s speed. They were no more than a car’s length in front of the truck when Seabury pivoted his body to the side and pulled up on the handlebars, jerking he bike back out of danger. The truck roared down past them, around a corner and out of sight.

  Without missing a beat, Seabury turned and glanced back at the jeep as it rushed towards them. It raced across the center line onto the soft shoulder, barreling after them. Seabury noticed the driver’s fury a while back when he’d attempted to crash into the back of the bike and send it toppling over at high speed onto the road. Seabury was sure he had the same idea in mind now—to close fast, crash into the bike and send it flying over the cliff straight down into a deep ravine below the highway.

  Hands thrust forward, Seabury gunned the throttle. The engine revved and squealed in pain. Seconds later, to Seabury’s surprise, it caught hold and the bike rose to full power.

  As he raced to the edge of the ravine, Tory screamed in horror, her eyes closed as she curled into his back, her hands squeezed shut on the rails beside her. Aware that the jeep was no more than five yards behind him, Seabury slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust near the edge of the ravine.

  Tory pounded his back and screamed out loud. “Seabury! What the hell are you doing?”

  Ignoring her, he timed his actions. He revved the engine, held the brake and waited a split second as the jeep roared up behind him. Then, just at the moment when the jeep was about to crash into the back of the bike and hurl them over the cliff, Seabury gunned the engine. The bike leaped forward and spun around in a wheelie of dust and smoke. Seabury’s momentum carried them out of harm’s way. The jeep’s momentum sent it airborne over the cliff, down into the ravine below.

  Seabury shut off the engine. Getting off the bike, he jogged back to the edge of the ravine and stared straight down. Tory followed close behind.

  To his surprise, the drop off below was deeper than he’d expected. Stands of
white pine and dark volcanic rock tore out of the land in a vast vertical drop filled with dark ominous shadows lit only by the red fire ball that shot back up from the bottom. Seabury turned away from the devastation, his body shaking, his mind amazed and elated about still being alive. Tory flew into his arms. He held her a long time, kissed back her tears and they separated. A harsh stream of air tore out of her lungs. “I thought we were dead, Tory said.”

  “You okay?” he asked in a calm reassuring tone.

  “No. I’m not, okay. We were one inch away from being killed. How long is this going to go on?” she said, tired and confused.

  “I don’t know, Tory. I’m sorry I really don’t.”

  She expelled a deep breath from her lungs and her anger vanished.

  “I’m okay now…really.” She put on a brave face.

  “We’d better go then,” he said.

  In another minute, they were back on the bike and roaring up the highway. They had five hours to go before reaching Phonsavan, another two hours out to the Jar Site. We’ll never make it, Seabury thought. No way in hell now. He drove hard up the road.

  * * * *

  Inside the observation post on Phou Pha Thi Mountain, the Pathet Lao platoon leader slipped the Japanese motion sensor chip into his laptop. It was 7:30 a.m. He punched in a digital code and the monitor sprang to life. On the computer screen three fire concentrations—102, 103 and 104—were plotted along the Red Wall Army’s supply trail. The seismic motion sensor vibrated now to show the movement of rebel troops crossing the floor of the valley below.

  The platoon leader, a stout helmeted man with wide-spaced brown eyes, a thin moustache and stern military demeanor, computed the firing data into his laptop, making sure that each concentration was spaced 100-150 meters apart.

  From the radio room he radioed the gunner. The gunner on the D-30 122mm Howitzer unit outside responded and the platoon leader gave him the signal to commence firing.

  In the valley below fifteen rebel troops, three trucks and six pack mules passed through concentration 102 at the lower end of the valley when the Howitzer reached them. Several loud explosions reached the observation post and then the valley floor went quiet. The platoon leader smiled and continued to adjust his data.

  Next, he used his assault meteorological setup to focus on concentration 103, the rebel’s well-guarded main camp and supply station. He radioed back and ordered his gunner to fire a volley into the compound.

  A few minutes later one of the gunners yelled down through the opening to the platoon leader. “We hit the bastards hard. It’s like Chinese New Year down there. The ammo dump’s gone up with the rest of the camp.”

  The men in the gun turret sent up a volley of laughter.

  Hunched over the laptop, the platoon leader clicked onto fire concentration 104. The outpost was at the far end of the valley. It was fortified by a platoon of hired mercenaries pinned down by air attack helicopters. Choppers had strafed the compound using laser guided rockets to overturn two trucks, killing five pack animals and six men as well as destroying small arms and ammunition. Hurrying now, the platoon sergeant radioed the chopper squadron leader and got clearance to commence mop-up duty inside the kill zone. The gunners continued to fire on the military outpost for another ten minutes and then were ordered to stop.

  Down below the valley was an inferno of smoke and fire. Through the dense clouds, Red Wall rebels scattered like ants, some of them escaping from the area, moving back inside a crest of rolling foothills at the north end of the valley. The majority were shot and killed by the advancing 2nd Army Division sweeping across the valley floor.

  Colonel Maran Tint, watching from the air, radioed the news back to the Supreme Commander at Army headquarters in Vientiane.

  “Sir. Complete and total victory is now assured,” Tint told the General.

  “Excellent work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Tint replied, as his chopper continued its journey south toward an unidentified airfield near the city of Phonsavan in northeastern Laos.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Over the next hill, a hot dry field lined with weeds and scrub brush caught Seabury’s eye and he pulled over next to a barbed wire fence to exchange places with Tory. Beyond the fence, weeds grew out of boards of old decaying lumber and rusted metal littered the ground. Off in the distance the peaks of tall, green triangular-shaped mountains pushed up into a blue sky.

  “The checkpoint’s up ahead,” Seabury said.

  “Yes, Wildman, I know,” she replied. “I’ve been through it several times with Ken, the father I never see.”

  “Oh, that Ken Kwan—the infamous tour guide.”

  “One of the All Time Greats… according to him.”

  “Ah, you shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Seabury said. “And what’s with the Wildman moniker? For all you know I’m like a babe in the woods in need of a lot of TLC. Translated that means…”

  “I know what it means,” she said, interrupting him, grinning. “Tender Loving Care, something I’m ready to show the right guy if I ever find him.” She paused, the smile fading from her face. “And about Ken, you don’t know half of it. So I’d appreciate it if you kept your comments to yourself.”

  He shrugged, a little sheepish under the weight of her tone and settled down on the back end of the bike. She drove onto the road and a quarter mile later, eased back on the throttle. The bike powered down to a kittenish purr as she pulled in behind a tour van slowing down at the junction up ahead.

  The road made a wide, sweeping arch to the right of a cluster of brown buildings. Seabury saw a guest house, a gas station and a mini-mart further up. The mountain village of Phou Khoun lay off in the distance behind him. Tory stopped the bike behind the van and let the engine idle. People crossed the road back and forth in front of them. A queue of traffic waited to get through the checkpoint. The smell of monoxide filled the air. Across the road, under bright umbrellas, people sat at roadside tables, eating. Fruit and vegetable stands stood nearby.

  Seabury pulled the scarf up close to his face. He checked his watch. Time ticking, ticking by. He thought about highway patrol cars now. The images flashed like ticker tape across his mind. They patrolled small isolated side roads connected to larger highways. They were always on the lookout for the expensive sports car, traveling at high speeds. On the lookout for light delivery trucks or freight trucks overloaded with merchandise bound for markets in nearby cities. They set speed traps, issued tickets, then rendezvoused back at checkpoints posted at junction sites toward the end of the day.

  It was late morning. He knew they wouldn’t be around. So maybe they could do it, get through the junction unnoticed. Seabury stirred on back of the motorcycle and waited.

  Hot, humid air and shimmering waves of heat rose off the pavement, surrounding him. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead into his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, thinking about the guard at the checkpoint up ahead. Hoping he was drowsy and inattentive, from seeing so many people that he would wave a hand and let them pass through. He shuddered to think what would happen if he didn’t.

  Tory moved slowly behind the tour van in front of them. People sat inside, talking. Heads moved back and forth in the back window. Seabury turned his head to the side, heard the flatbed truck pull in behind them. A load of chickens squawked from inside metal cages.

  The tour van was waved through and they moved up to the window. The guard looked out at them.

  Tory said, “Phonsavan…bahn…home.” The guard looked out, studying them. He glanced at Tory, then back at Seabury, with a look of suspicion. His head jerked to the side and his finger pointed to a spot at the side of the building for Tory to pull into. Seabury’s heart sank as his mind raced ahead.

  What to do? What to do now? He searched for options. There weren’t many.

  Tory protested, calmly, rationally, but with a slight edge to her voice. Seabury saw her shrug her shoulders, saw her hand point back at him—an old
man, traveling on a long, tiring journey. What was the matter with the guy, anyway?

  The guard, a lean sour, automaton dressed in a green military uniform, remained firm and authoritative until the clatter of chickens broke through the hot morning air. He looked at Tory then he moved to a side window and stared outside.

  The chicken truck was parked in a sunny patch of ground close to the building. The driver sat behind the wheel, his head tilted to the side, leaning against the door, waiting. With a sly grin the guard moved back to Tory. He glanced down at her. This time his expression was less severe, less serious and hard-edged. There was even the hint of a smile. The guard nodded and waved her through.

  Turning right, Tory swung onto highway 7. The road was roughly paved, with intermittent cracks and potholes. Rough, but serviceable, Seabury noted, as Tory changed gears and brought the bike up to speed. When they were far enough away from the checkpoint, Seabury glanced back over his shoulder. He saw a jackbooted guard in a military uniform wave the chicken truck over.

  “And suddenly the heavens opened,” Seabury shouted up to Tory. “And money poured down everywhere.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a national pastime…extorting the locals.”

  He shook his head as they raced on, not sure whether to feel relieved or amazed.

  * * * *

  A few miles up the road, Tory pulled over and exchanged places with Seabury and he drove the bike back onto the highway. Phonsavan was a hard drive to the west, about a hundred miles by Seabury’s calculation. The road was full of ruts and potholes and occasional patches of jagged brown earth breaking through. The rough road would delay them further.

  Phonsavan by three o’clock, impossible, Seabury thought. He drove hard over the narrow winding road. No way to do it now. No way to get there by three o’clock. Also, the Jar Sites were out of town, at least a couple of hours. Seabury knew the earliest he could reach Jar Site 3 was five o’clock.