The pilot couldn’t take his eyes off the scene that was being played out in front of him, even though he knew the danger from the men on the hill was growing by the minute. The Laotian sheathed his knife and walked over to the chest standing about six feet or so in front of the two men who’d carried it. They stepped back, their guns in the ready position, as the mercenary leaned down to open it. Two more of the mercenaries moved forward to stand either side of him. From where he was standing behind the tree, the pilot couldn’t see what was in the chest. He slowly went down on all fours and crept along the damp jungle floor, moving slowly and taking great care where he put his hands, until he reached a tree with thick, rubbery leaves. He hugged its trunk and peered around. He now was looking at the backs of the Laotians, and through their legs he could see inside the open chest. Blocks of metal gleamed in the light of the flickering fire. The mercenary who had opened the sack bent down and picked up one of the blocks. He had to use both hands, and even from thirty feet away the pilot knew it could only be gold. He knew he was seeing something more than a simple “need-to-know” CIA operation. The Special Forces men were about to swap the gold for drugs and the Huey was to fly the drugs back to the ship. The pilot was confused. He’d heard of Air America planes being used to ferry drugs around for the Thai drug barons as a way of getting them to help in the fight against the VC, but what he was seeing was something different. The Americans were paying for the drugs, with gold; it wasn’t a case of doing a favour for the Laotians or supplying them with cash or arms. This was a straightforward drug deal he was witnessing.
For the first time he became aware of another group of Laotians standing further behind and to the right of the mercenaries on the edge of the circle of warm light cast by the fire. The group was composed of women and very small children. One of the women held a baby in her arms and she was making small shushing noises to keep it from crying. Whereas the men were dressed in khaki combat fatigues, the women and children wore brightly coloured clothes made from red, green, yellow and blue striped material, the girls in skirts, the small boys in leggings. The women had their hair tied back and were wearing strips of cloth wound around their heads like badly tied turbans.
The pilot wanted to shout a warning to the Americans, to tell them that they had to go, but he was unsure how they’d react to him being there. The decision was made for him when the American with the Commando fired at the three Laotians standing by the chest, cutting them down before they had a chance to raise their weapons. The three other Americans fired almost immediately afterwards and bullets ripped through the foliage near where the pilot was standing. Those mercenaries who weren’t killed outright were screaming in pain, flowers of blood spreading across their fatigues. The women and children made as if to move forward to help their men but one of the women, old with shrivelled skin and no teeth, shouted to them and waved them back. The pilot reached for the automatic pistol in his shoulder holster but didn’t draw it out. What could he do? Shoot the Americans? Plead with them to stop the slaughter? Tell them he’d report them when they got back to the ship? None of the choices was viable. He let the butt slide from his sweating fingers. The women and children turned and ran, stumbling and tripping in their panic. The four Americans fired together, raking the Laotians with a hail of bullets, the individual weapons making separate identifiable sounds but the end result was the same: women and children falling to the ground and dying.
A gasp escaped involuntarily from the pilot’s mouth and he tasted bitter vomit at the back of his throat. His ears were hurting from the sound of the guns and even when the firing stopped they were still ringing, making it hard to think. The humid night air was thick with the smell of cordite and hot metal. The two men who’d carried the chest from the Huey ran over to it and closed the lid. The guy with the Commando shouted something and one of the men went to the dead Laotian with the knife and kicked him over on to his back, searching the ground until he found the gold bar he’d picked up before he died. The bar was returned to the chest and the lid lowered. As two of the men lifted the chest, one of them looked in the pilot’s direction. He pointed and the pilot flinched as if he’d been fired at. While watching the massacre he’d stepped away from the tree without realising it and now he could clearly be seen in the firelight. His feet felt as if they were rooted to the ground. The man with the Commando stepped forward, walking slowly with the barrel of his gun lowered. He stopped when he was about thirty feet away from the pilot, his face in darkness because the fire was behind him. The pilot couldn’t see his face but he could feel the man’s eyes boring into him. He could hear the blood pounding through his veins and feel the sweat clinging to his forehead. He knew he had never been so close to death and that everything depended on how he reacted. He dropped his hands to his sides and gave a half shrug as if nothing mattered. The man with the Commando stood stock still, his feet planted shoulder width apart, his left side slightly closer to the pilot than his right, the perfect shooting position. The barrel of the gun was still pointed at the ground. The pilot widened his smile. He knew that his face was clearly visible in the firelight, that they could see his every expression.
The man’s upper body appeared to relax as if he’d come to a decision and the pilot let out a sigh of relief. He was about to step forward when the Commando swung. The pilot dived without thinking, throwing himself to his left and rolling on the ground before scrambling away into the undergrowth. He didn’t look back so he didn’t see the muzzle flashes but he felt the air crack as bullets passed within inches of his head. He ran by instinct, dodging trees before they loomed out of the darkness, avoiding vines on the ground without seeing them, jumping the stream without getting wet, as if his subconscious mind had recorded every step of his journey through the jungle and was now replaying it in reverse because it knew that if it made one wrong move he’d be dead. His breath came in ragged bursts and his arms pumped up and down as he ran, his eyes wide with fear, his muscles screaming in agony as his feet pounded on the jungle floor.
He burst out of the jungle into the clearing and ran headlong towards the Huey, throwing himself into the pilot’s seat and pulling on the collective before he’d even sat down. The turbine whined and the blades speeded up until they were a blurred circle above his head. Relieved of the weight of its four passengers and cargo it soared almost vertically out of the clearing. From the corner of his eye he saw the four Special Forces men tear out of the undergrowth and point their guns at him. Red dots streamed past the Huey and up into the night and he heard a series of bangs behind him, thuds of metal against metal. He waggled his directional pedals frantically, jerking the slick from left to right to make himself less of a target, all the time increasing the power to the rotors to give it extra lift.
It was only when the altimeter showed 2,000 feet that he relaxed. He put the Huey into a hover while he considered his next move. He pushed the right pedal and nudged the cyclic to the right and pointed the nose of the Huey east, towards Vietnam. A thousand thoughts crowded into his head, all seeking attention, but they were dulled by the conflicting emotions he felt: horror at what he’d seen, guilt for not doing anything to stop it, anger at the men behind the massacre, terror at being hunted, fear of what would happen to him when he got back to the ship. If he got back. He took deep breaths and tried to focus his thoughts, to bring some sort of order to his bewildered mind. When it happened it happened suddenly, without him knowing, the way water freezes, turning from liquid to solid so quickly that there is no borderline between the two states. One moment he was in total confusion, the next he knew with perfect clarity what he would do.
He pushed the cyclic to the left and pressed the left foot pedal, swinging the Huey round and losing height because he didn’t increase power, until the helicopter was pointing in the opposite direction, due west. He hovered for a moment, steadying his breathing, concentrating on the block of ice in his mind, feeling the helicopter react to the small, almost imperceptible, movements of hi
s hands and feet, absorbing the data from the instruments. He sighed, a deep mournful emptying of his lungs, then pulled on the collective and pushed the cyclic forward. The turbine roared and the Huey jumped forward as if eager to go. Within minutes the pilot had the Huey up to its maximum speed of 138 mph, flying low and level, just above the treetops, as the ice block slowly melted to cool, clear water.
The rain had caught Paris by surprise and many of those walking down the Champs-Elysées on pre-Christmas shopping trips were shivering damply as they looked in the store windows. The weather forecast had been for a mild day, sunny even, and the Parisians were accustomed to taking the forecasters at their word. Anthony Chung trusted no one’s judgment other than his own, however, and he’d worn his black mohair coat after scrutinising the steely grey morning sky from the window of his penthouse flat in Rue de Sèvres. He wore a slightly smug expression as he walked out of the Charles de Gaulle Etoile Métro station and into the fierce rain-spotted wind that blew up the thoroughfare from Place de la Concorde.
He walked by shops packed with some of the best names in European fashion: Guy Laroche, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, Nina Ricci; but above them, atop the centuries-old buildings, were the signs of the new economic masters of the world: Toshiba, NEC, and Ricoh. Even in France, one of the most chauvinistic of countries, the Japanese displayed their dominance. Chung looked around for evidence of America’s encroachment on to the Parisian scene. To his left he saw a McDonald’s outlet and less than a hundred yards further down a Burger King and garish posters promoting Le Whopper, Les Frites, and Le Milk Shake. There was a message there somewhere, thought Chung as he walked down towards Fouquet’s, on the corner where Avenue George V met the Champs-Elysées. He looked at his watch. It was eleven thirty. The watch, a gold Cartier, had been a present from his father almost ten years earlier on the day he’d graduated from the Sorbonne. Thoughts of his father crowded into his mind and he pushed them away, concentrating instead on the American he was to meet. Colonel Joel Tyler. An ex-colonel, if the truth be told, but Tyler was a man who insisted on using the title and, bearing in mind the business he was in, it was understandable.
Chung crossed the busy Champs-Elysées looking left and right because he knew that the Parisians paid little heed to the colour of the traffic lights or the location of pedestrians. The traffic was heavier than normal as shoppers poured in from the suburbs to buy last-minute Christmas presents for their families and friends. It would be even busier at night, Chung knew, when the millions of tiny white lights would come alive in the leaf-bare chestnut trees of the avenue and the sidewalks would be packed with sightseers and lovers. He pushed open the doors to the café, nodded at a white-coated waiter and went over to a table. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over one of the wicker and cane chairs, looking at his watch again. Five minutes to go. He placed a copy of the International Herald Tribune on the table and then sat down, smoothing the creases on the trousers of his 2,000 dollar suit. He ordered a hot chocolate from a grey-haired waiter and smiled at the man’s look of professional disdain. Chung never failed to be amused by the cultured arrogance of French waiters, or by the raised eyebrows when they heard his fluency in their language. The bottom half of the windows were obscured with thick red velvet curtains on brass rods so he couldn’t see out into the street. Fouquet’s was not the sort of place where you went to rubber-neck like a tourist; everyone knew that the power was inside, not outside on the pavements looking in. Each time the door opened Chung would look up, but he cursed himself for doing so, for appearing to be over-eager. He looked at his watch again. The American was five minutes late and Chung tut-tutted under his breath. Punctuality was not a gift or an ability inherited from one’s parents, it was something that had to be worked at. Chung always made it a point to be on time for appointments; to do otherwise, his father had always said, was to be discourteous to the person you were to meet. Chung picked up the paper and idly read the headlines, but there was nothing in its American-orientated news that interested him and he threw it back down on the table. When he looked up again it was into a pair of cold blue eyes that rapidly crinkled into a smile. The face that looked down on Chung was thin, almost skeletal, and with its prominent hooked nose it reminded him of a leathery-skinned bird. A hawk maybe. Yes, Chung decided, there was a lot of the hawk about Colonel Joel Tyler. Chung had the man’s photograph in the inside pocket of his coat, but there was no need to check it against the original, there could be no mistaking the short-cropped steel grey hair, the beak-like nose or the small white scar over the right eyebrow. He pushed back the chair and got to his feet. Chung was tall for a Chinese, a fraction under six feet, but he had to look up to meet Tyler’s gaze as they shook hands. He felt Tyler’s eyes move quickly over his body, taking in the suit, the watch, the shoes, putting together a snap mental assessment, and the grip tightened as if he was checking his strength. Chung held Tyler’s gaze and his grip, matching them like for like until the American grinned, relaxed his handshake and then withdrew his hand.
“Mr Chung,” he said quietly.
“Colonel Tyler, thank you for coming,” said Chung, and waved him to a chair. A waiter appeared at his side while Tyler wound his wiry frame into the chair opposite Chung. Tyler ordered a black coffee, in English.
“Your room is comfortable?” Chung asked.
“It’s fine. I always like the George V,” Tyler replied. “Though, on balance, I think I prefer the Hotel Crillon or the Lancaster.”
Chung smiled and sipped at his chocolate. The waiter returned with Tyler’s coffee. The American dropped in two lumps of sugar and slowly stirred it. A steel Rolex Submariner appeared from under the cuff of his shirt. Tyler was wearing a brown checked sports jacket, a dark brown wool shirt and black slacks, not too expensive, not too flashy, and Chung realised it was camouflage, as much of a way of keeping out of sight in the city as the green fatigues the soldier had worn in the jungles of South-East Asia. Tyler watched Chung as he stirred, through eyes which rarely blinked. Chung knew he had the American’s undivided attention. “Everything is on schedule?” Chung asked.
Tyler nodded. “I leave for the States tomorrow, and I should be in Thailand in early April to assemble the team.”
“You have the men picked out already?”
“Some. Not all. But there won’t be any problems. I’ll do the final selection myself in Vietnam. My immediate concern is the helicopter and the armaments.”
“I thought you already had the helicopter?”
“The helicopter, yes. But I’ve spoken to a technical expert who tells me that it’s going to need more work than I’d anticipated.”
Chung frowned. “How much work?”
Tyler lifted his coffee cup. “A new engine and gearbox. Minimum.” He drank two deep mouthfuls while Chung took in the news.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Chung.
“Actually it’s not a problem. I’ve a contact in the Philippines who can put me in touch with a supplier. The Philippine military has more than eighty Bell 205A–1s and UH-1Hs and the corruption there has to be seen to be believed. I’ll have no problem buying the parts.”
Chung didn’t bother asking how much it would cost. He had paid half a million dollars into a Swiss bank account to cover all expenses. He took a thin, white envelope from his jacket and handed it to the American.
“Here is the name and address of a man in Bangkok who will arrange to have the helicopter shipped to Hong Kong. All you have to do is tell him where it is. He’ll do the rest. He’ll have it put in a container and shipped over. It’ll take two weeks at most. He’ll arrange payments to the Customs officials at both ends.” Tyler smiled at the way Chung said “payments”. Both men knew that they were talking about bribes. He put the envelope, unopened, into his jacket pocket. “Also in there are the details of a contact in Hong Kong, the man who will arrange for your weapons,” Chung continued. “His name is Michael Wong and he’s the leader of one of Hong Kong’s smaller tria
ds. Get in touch with him once you’ve arrived.” He took out a leather-bound notebook and a slim gold pen and slid them over the table to Tyler. “It would save time if you gave me a list of your main requirements now. It is possible to buy anything in Hong Kong, but some things take longer than others.”
Chung drank the rest of his chocolate while Tyler wrote with firm, clear strokes. When Tyler finished he snapped the notebook shut and handed it back. “I think that just about covers it,” said Chung. “Does anything else come to mind? I will be uncontactable for the next five months.”
“I realise that,” said Tyler. “No, I think everything is under control.” He unwound himself out of the chair and waited for Chung to get to his feet. They shook hands firmly. “So, the next time we meet will be in Hong Kong,” said Tyler.
“And we’ll both be considerably richer,” said Chung. The two men laughed and then Chung watched as the American left. He sat down and automatically smoothed the creases from his trousers again. The waiter hovered at his shoulder and Chung ordered another hot chocolate, in French. While he waited for it to arrive he opened the notebook and studied the American’s list.
Barton Lewis drove his car on autopilot as he headed south on Interstate 95, towards Washington. He stayed in the inside lane and barely noticed the traffic which streamed by him. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as some of the doctor’s words played over and over in his head. They were words which he could barely pronounce, but they spelled out a death sentence. Words like fiberoptic gastroscopy, endoscopic biopsies, gastric carcinoma. Words that meant cancer. Two tumours, the doctor had said, one in the stomach, one in the pancreas. It wasn’t what Lewis had expected when he’d gone to the clinic to complain about stomach pains and an uncharacteristic loss of appetite. At worst he’d expected to be told it was an ulcer. Cancer meant rapid weight loss, half-dead skeletons in hospital beds plugged into drip feeds, children with bald heads and sunken eyes. Cancer didn’t apply to an overweight black man who used to tuck away three Big Macs at one sitting and still went back for apple pie. Hell, he’d been putting weight on, not losing it.
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 2