Eternal Night

by Richard Turner

  Mitchell stood, stretched out his back, and reached up into the luggage rack for his only bag. He joined the line of people walking off the aircraft. The air outside was humid and sticky. Mitchell walked under a red and gold sign written in Burmese, and headed inside the terminal. He was soon joined by Jackson, Cardinal, and Dawn.

  A short, slender man in a loose-fitting blue uniform with a rumpled, peaked cap stood with the other drivers. In his hand was a sign that said Fields. It was the agreed-upon password to be used to make contact with Victor.

  Mitchell saw the sign and walked over. “Good day, my name is Mister Fields.”

  “Long flight from Vancouver, sir?” asked the man, employing the second part of the recognition sign.

  “Yes, very.” Mitchell extended his hand and shook the driver’s hand. Cupped in his palm were three hundred dollars in twenties.

  “Please follow me, Mister Fields. I have a van waiting to take you and your party to your hotel.”

  They all climbed aboard a silver Toyota van and buckled themselves in. The driver never bothered to offer his name, or engage in idle chatter, as they drove through the busy streets of the downtown core. Twenty minutes after leaving the airport, the driver took a side street and turned into the walled parking lot of an old red-brick warehouse. Three rough-looking men carrying AKs patrolled the grounds.

  “Your hotel, Mister Fields,” said the driver, with a smile that exposed a mouthful of gold-plated teeth.

  “Charming,” said Jackson, flinging open the side door of the van.

  Mitchell got out of the vehicle and looked around. There were surveillance cameras on the walls surrounding the warehouse, and on the building itself. The driver honked the horn and waved goodbye as he drove away.

  “Now what?” said Jackson to his friend.

  “I guess we go inside and say hello,” replied Mitchell. He led the way and opened a door on the side of the warehouse. A distinct, flowery smell wafted in the air. Mitchell instantly recognized the aroma of uncut opium mixed with incense.

  “Please do come in, Mister Mitchell!” called out a man in a white suit with a Russian accent, standing next to a black Rolls Royce SUV.

  “Victor, I assume,” replied Mitchell, walking over.

  “That name will work for this transaction,” replied the man.

  “That’s him all right,” said Cardinal, bitterly.

  Four armed men walked out of the shadows, cradling their assault rifles in their arms.

  Mitchell raised his hands. “We’ve come to make a business deal, not start a fight.”

  “I know, but I’m a cautious man,” said Victor. “I want to grow old and die in the arms of my mistress, and you can’t do that if you don’t take certain precautions.”

  Mitchell and his people stopped a few meters shy of Victor. Mitchell continued. “Let’s get down to business. Can you supply us with what we need, and can you guarantee us the support of the Shan’s People’s Militia?”

  “The equipment was easy. The hard part was getting General Saya to see the wisdom of your plan.”

  “Did you tell him he could take all the drugs he found at the camp with him when he left?”

  Victor nodded. “He planned on taking the drugs anyway. The general just wasn’t sure he wanted to start a war with the ULA. However, you’re in luck. One of his deputies’ cousins was recently murdered by the ULA, so they’re spoiling for a fight.”

  Mitchell took a step closer. “So, what is this going to cost us?”

  Victor grinned. “It won’t cost you what you think.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “It’s been a long couple of days. What do mean, it’s not going to cost what I think?”

  “General Saya makes close to one billion dollars a year from the sale of illegal narcotics. Any attempt to buy his support would have been seen as an insult.”

  “So, what does he want in return for his help?” asked Jackson.

  “A straight-up trade. Varun Sandesh’s yacht for his support.”

  “He’s got it,” said Mitchell, stunned at how cheap the general’s support came.

  “I’d best make a call back home to cement his deal,” said Jackson, taking Mitchell’s satphone from him.

  “How does he know that Sandesh is involved in this matter?” asked Cardinal.

  “I told him,” replied Victor. “Besides, word would have gotten out soon enough that he was in territory controlled by the ULA.”

  “Pilots?” asked Yuri in Russian.

  “You got what you asked for,” replied Victor. “They’re all Russian expats living down here.”

  “What state are their choppers in?”

  “They fly drugs in and out of the Golden Triangle on a regular basis, so I’d have to say they’re airworthy.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “We’re in business,” said Jackson. “Sandesh’s brother has okayed the trade.”

  “Now that we’ve concluded this part of the bargain, I’d like to know when I’m getting paid,” said Victor to Mitchell.

  Dawn stepped forward. “Aneesh Sandesh needs to hear from me that we’re in business before he’ll wire the money to your Swiss account. And I count being airborne and on our way to the objective as being in business.”

  Victor smiled. “Grace picks her people well. A sound safety precaution I would have also insisted on. So be it. I’ll await your call.”

  “If this concludes our business,” said Mitchell, “where are our vehicles, equipment, and guide?”

  Victor raised a hand. A light at the back of the warehouse switched on, lighting up two Land Rovers. A couple of young men stood next to the vehicles, smoking cigarettes. Victor opened the door to his SUV and turned to look at Mitchell. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Jackson, slamming Victor’s door closed.

  Mitchell shook his head and walked after his friend.

  “Do you guys speak English?” Jackson asked the drivers.

  “Yeah,” replied the lead driver.

  “Good. Open up your Rovers and let me see what you’ve got packed in there.”

  The young men opened the back doors on their vehicles and moved off to the side.

  Jackson and Cardinal rummaged through the back of the vehicles. “NVGs, radios, med kits, uniforms, ammo, 9mm pistols, and SAR-21 assault rifles,” rattled off Jackson.

  “Looks like they got everything on the list,” said Cardinal.

  “Then it’s time we got down to work,” said Mitchell. “I’ll ride in the lead vehicle with Nate and Dawn. Yuri and Gordon will be in the other. Once we get to General Saya’s camp, Nate’s going to take charge. Listen to what he says, this operation requires split-second timing if we’re going to pull it off.”

  “Are you sure you still want to go in alone?” asked Jackson.

  “We need intel on where Sam and Grace are being held,” said Mitchell. “Without that, we’ll continue to bumble along blindly as we have so far.”

  Yuri tapped his watch. “People, I need to time to check out our helicopters, and I can’t do that from here.”

  “Okay then,” said Mitchell, opening the door to his Rover. “All aboard. Next stop is General Saya’s camp.”

  52

  Albany, New York

  The sudden, loud ring of General O’Reilly’s phone on the nightstand shocked him out of a deep sleep. He switched on a light and picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Sorry to wake you, Jack, but what I’ve got to pass on is urgent,” said James Oliver, the Assistant Secretary of State for Intelligence and Research.

  O’Reilly picked up his watch and saw it was just after three in the morning. “What’s up, James?”

  “The State Department has greatly appreciated your organization keeping us in the loop about your suspicions regarding Varun Sandesh. Now, it’s our turn to repay you the courtesy.”

  O’Reilly sat up in bed. “I’m listening.”

  “Jack, somehow the wor
d got out about Sandesh’s alleged plot to create a bioweapon, and the Indian government is planning to do something about it.”

  “What precisely are they planning?”

  “Their ambassador called the secretary of state less than an hour ago to announce their intention to destroy the bioweapons plant. They feel because Sandesh is an Indian businessman that they’re duty-bound to clean up his mess.”

  “How?”

  “An Indian aircraft carrier was just given orders to go full speed ahead for the coast of Myanmar. Once they’re in position, the Indians will most likely launch a strike by Mig-29Ks armed with specially designed cruise missiles.”

  “What did the state department do when the Indians told them?”

  “They did the usual and expressed concern about using force inside another country, but quietly they wished them luck.”

  O’Reilly’s head was spinning. “When will they be in position to launch their strike?”

  “According to our experts in the Pentagon, the first sortie of planes will launch exactly seventeen hours from now. Time of flight to the objective will take less than thirty minutes. I know you have people in the region. If I were you, I’d pull them out and let the Indians deal with the bioweapons.”

  “I can’t do that, James.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Sandesh is holding one of my people as a hostage.”

  “Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”

  “With no disrespect to you or your people, I didn’t expect any help from the government. It’s easier if we do things ourselves.”

  “Jack, you’ve got seventeen hours to do what you can; after that, everything will be out of our hands.”

  “I understand, and thanks for the warning.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  O’Reilly set the phone down and stood. He walked over to a table and picked up his secure satphone.

  “Jack, is something wrong?” asked Diane, reaching for her glasses.

  “I need to get a hold of Ryan. Come ten AM in Myanmar, the world around them is going to go up in flames.”

  53

  Myanmar

  Everywhere Mitchell looked, rebel soldiers in camouflage uniforms lounged about, not paying much attention to the two Rovers as they drove through their camp.

  “General Saya lives up there,” said the driver, pointing at a white, two-story building surrounded by armed guards. Parked out front were two Lamborghinis and an Aston Martin sports car. Mitchell ballparked the value of the three vehicles at more than ten million dollars.

  “Stop here,” said Mitchell, opening his door. He stepped out onto the dirt track and looked up at Saya’s home. There were bars on all the windows, and surveillance cameras watched his every movement from the roof.

  The double front doors swung open, and a squad of rebels emerged. They fanned out and took up position facing the two Rovers.

  Mitchell kept his hands by his sides.

  A squat man, wearing a uniform adorned with medals and gold braid, walked out onto the front steps of the mansion. In his right hand was an expensive bottle of scotch. In the other was a lit cigar. “Are you Mitchell?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “Good evening. My name is General Saya. I believe we have a mutual problem that needs dealing with.” Saya spoke with a slight British accent.

  “That we do, General.”

  “Come inside, and we can talk in private.”

  “Sir, the man you need to talk to is Nate Jackson. He’ll be leading the ground assault on the camp.”

  Jackson walked over and stood next to Mitchell.

  Saya raised an eyebrow. “Where will you be, Mitchell?”

  “I’m going in as soon as possible to reconnoiter the ground. Nate knows his job and will give you sound advice on what to do.”

  Saya shrugged. “It’s your call, Mister Mitchell. As long as I get my boat when this is all said and done, I’ll be happy.”

  “The yacht’s yours for the taking. The only thing I think you need to know is that in roughly fourteen hours, the fake refugee camp and everything around it will be a smoldering hole in the ground. So, we had all best get to work.”

  “Mister Jackson, please bring who you need with you,” said Saya. “We’ve got some planning to do.”

  Jackson tapped his friend on the shoulder. “Good luck, Ryan.”

  “You too,” he replied. “See you at the objective.”

  Unable to sit still any longer, Mitchell unbuckled himself from his seat and made his way to the cockpit of the MI-8 helicopter flying barely above the top of the jungle trees. His frustration at not being able to depart the rebel camp before midnight ate at his stomach.

  “How’s it going, Yuri?”

  “Not bad,” he replied. “This chopper at least is in working condition. The other three are crap. I told the other pilots that they need to drain their fuel tanks and replace all of their fuel filters before we refuel them.”

  “How long will that delay the air assault?”

  “If they have the filters on hand, and if they can get some untainted fuel, we should be able to launch around nine in the morning.”

  “Jesus, Yuri, that’s cutting it a bit fine, don’t you think?”

  “I’m just telling you the facts. If I could, I’d have them all ready to go at first light, but it’s not going to happen. I’m sorry.”

  Mitchell pounded his fist against the fuselage. “It’s not your fault. How long until we reach the LZ?”

  “Less than five minutes. You had better get yourself ready.”

  “See you in a few hours.”

  “Da. Keep your head down, and we’ll meet again.”

  Mitchell walked back into the spacious crew compartment and hauled on his tactical vest. He took his NVGs out of their carrying case, switched them on, and placed them on top of his head. Lastly, he jammed home a thirty-round magazine into his SAR-21 and loaded a round in the chamber. Mitchell’s stomach rose in his midsection as Yuri dove like a hawk for the ground.

  The light in the back of the chopper turned red.

  Mitchell flipped down his NVGs and opened the side door. Without stopping, he dashed out of the helicopter and ran for the cover of the jungle. A second later, Yuri lifted off and was gone. The sound of the choppers’ rotor blades was slowly replaced by the sound of insects buzzing in the night air. Mitchell looked down at the GPS on his wrist and got his bearings. With his rifle tight in his shoulder, Mitchell began to jog down a game path. In his mind, he pictured a clock counting down to zero. With less than eight hours to go, he could feel the pressure building in his chest. Mitchell tried to clear his thoughts, but the image of Sam trapped in an underground prison drove him on. In the back of his mind, he was looking forward to saying goodbye to Dimov.

  Jackson stood at the side of the open field as Yuri brought his chopper into land. He waited until Yuri had powered down the helicopter before walking over to greet his friend.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Smooth,” replied Yuri. “The route to the objective is through a series of valleys. We’ll be on them before they know what’s happening.”

  “The insertion?”

  “We had to fly a few kilometers past the camp to mask the noise of the helicopter’s rotor blades. Ryan got out okay and was gone before I got back into the air.”

  “Gordon’s been tracking him via the homing device in the sole of his boot. He should be nearing the camp.”

  “Nate, have you been told about the tainted fuel for the chopper?”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “When you’ve fixed the problem, we’ll depart.”

  “I hate to say it, but I don’t see us leaving before eight or nine in the morning.”

  Jackson nodded. “Just do what you can.”

  “Da.” Yuri spotted one of his fellow countrymen sitting on the ground next to his helicopter and started yelling at him in Ru
ssian.

  With time running out, Jackson looked up at the cloud-filled night sky and prayed that Mitchell would get Sam out of the base before the missiles struck. They’d never let any of their teammates down before, and he’d be damned if they did so today.

  54

  Something wasn’t right.

  Every nerve and fiber in Mitchell’s body sprang to life. He froze in place, trying to detect what had set him off. The faint whiff of cigarette smoke hung in the still night air. Mitchell stepped off the trail and crept forward through the forest. Suddenly, he heard someone snoring loudly. Mitchell kept moving until he spotted a couple of men sitting on boxes, smoking. A third man lay on the ground, fast asleep. If this was the best they could do for a sentry post the rest would be easy, he thought to himself. Mitchell stepped lightly through the undergrowth until the sentries were well behind him. He checked his bearing and distance to the camp on his GPS, and continued. Slowly the ground began to rise. He’d arrived at the hill the destroyed temple was built upon. Mitchell suspected there could be armed foot patrols the closer he got to the camp, so he moved far from the trail and worked his way forward.

  High above him, the clouds parted and the light from a nearly full moon shone down through the breaks in the jungle canopy.

  Mitchell had just paused for a moment to pick the best way through the forest, when his heart skipped a beat. Directly in front of his feet was an old, Soviet anti-personnel mine tied to the base of a tree. He bent down to study the mine, and found a trip wire leading between the mine and another tree. Mitchell slowly turned his head and spotted three more mines. He gritted his teeth and looked back the way he came. Mitchell knew he had two options: to retrace his steps and hope the trail leading to the top of the hill was clear, or find a way through the minefield. Neither option appealed to him. Both would eat up time, and that was in short supply right now. He stood to step over the trip wire when he broke out in a cold sweat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted three prongs poking up from the dirt. There was another mine. Mitchell shook his head and warily brought his foot back down. It was just too dangerous to risk tiptoeing around in a minefield in the dark. He turned around and placed his feet in the tracks he had earlier made. His heart wanted him to go faster, but his brain warned him that the jungle was probably infested with mines, and that he had been lucky so far. By the time he reached the trail, his body was covered in sweat. Mitchell grabbed his canteen and took a long swig before putting it back and wiping the sweat from his face.