by Ron Lealos
“Can we make it to Thailand?” Washington asked.
“All the Company jets are ultra-long range,” Finnen said. “Gotta be able to skip about without refueling and letting the wrong people know where the passengers will be going for their final holiday. Somewhere around ten thousand kilos.”
“Speak English,” Washington said. “Not that pansy Brit kilo shit. Miles.”
“Oh, I’d reckon about seven thousand in Yank terms.”
“That’ll get us to Chiang Rai Province,” Washington said. “I have connections there and know where there are private landing strips we could use.”
“You sure they’re trustworthy?”
“Well, I had great faith in my first wife,” Washington said, “that was until I caught her with a Colonel who just happened to be my CO. I didn’t come to attention like he was, if you know what I mean.”
Finnen and I glanced at each other and nodded agreement.
“Now,” I said, “it’s just a matter of persuading the crew the congee at Cabbages and Condoms in Chiang Rai is worth a side trip.”
“They’ve been listening to every word,” Dunne said. “And broadcasting it to one of the ALSAT satellites with a real-time link to Langley.” He smirked. “You really think you can get away with it?”
There was a small satchel on the floor, and Finnen had explored the contents earlier. He bent down and took out a roll of gray duct tape, holding it in front of Dunne’s face.
“Seems some yob left their tools,” Finnen said. “All the gear a professional torturer might be needin’, including needle-nose pliers, scalpels, torches, clamps, and syringes, along with other miscellaneous treats. All I need is this,” he jiggled the tape by Dunne’s head. “To shut that big yap a’ yours.” He ripped off a piece of the tape and pushed it hard over Dunne’s mouth.
“No way those boys up front heard anything,” Washington said. “Too much classified bullshit going on back here to allow lowly pilots to listen to secret plans to save the world.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ve gotta figure out how to turn them to the good side without the plane exploding in midair. Or arrange a greeting party of Seals on the ground.”
Patience wasn’t in Washington’s nature. He stood and strode to the door of the flight deck. The entry was covered in mahogany wood, and the paneling was polished to a glossy red-brown shine. He didn’t bother knocking and kicked directly on the handle—hard. The door flew open, banging against something on the side of the narrow opening.
The doorway’s small size prevented us from seeing what Washington did next. His bulk barely allowed him to squeeze through, and his wide load blocked light from the windshield. Within seconds, the Gulfstream lurched, meaning Washington had at least a single pilot in his fielder’s glove–proportioned hands. Maybe one flyer in each. He wasn’t dumb or wicked enough to kill them. Certainly, he would be explaining the advantages of flying under the radar screens to Chiang Rai. And the disadvantages of taking an alternate course from that designated by Langley. There would be no communication with the ALSAT onto any of the demons at the Firm.
A minute later, the jet slowly altered its path southward. I watched the mountains begin to fade on the horizon and checked that Khkulay was alright. She was and was looking forward to the pilot’s cabin, finally showing some emotion, her mouth wide seeing what she could of Washington.
Finnen, Washington, and I spent too much time in each other’s heads. Without a vote, we had unanimously decided Washington’s plan was the best among few choices, and we had nominated him unsaid to carry out the details, while Finnen and I continued our one-sided chat with Dunne. Questions like radio silence, violating airspace, and keeping from getting shot down would be resolved between Washington and the pilots. I turned my attention back to Dunne just as Finnen hoisted a newly poured glass full of Jameson’s to his lips.
“Sooo, we still haven’t resolved why we were being escorted to Jaslyk,” I said. “Because we made a side trip to Germany and put together a plot that included corruption, heroin, and petroleum? That shouldn’t be of much importance to the minders in Virginia. Everyday behavior. What kind of snake pit did we uncover?”
“That reminds me of the old Emerald Isle one,” Finnen said. “Why’d St. Pat drive all the snakes out of Ireland?” He looked at Dunne and me, a smile already curling his mouth. “No answers? Well, boy’os, because he couldn’t afford airfare.”
Absurd. We were on a Company jet trying to flee from the most powerful malevolent entity on the planet. The CIA. Even more depraved than the Papacy. And Finnen was telling nauseating juvenile jokes. Could be his brain was stewed in Scotch, and the wiring was shorting out. He was a realist about douche bags like Dunne and saw the world differently than most warriors. Nothing seemed to shock or surprise him. Finnen believed “the blood of the wicked would flow like a river” if he had a role in the play. It wasn’t geopolitics or patriotism that motivated him. It was ridding the land of monsters and villains. As long as he felt his quest was just, and he had enough fuel in his flask, he would continue the good fight, telling his silly gags along the road. A man like Dunne, who had proven he was from the dark side, got little sympathy or compassion from Finnen. He would rather make the CIA officer a paraplegic than let Dunne carry on being a devil if he hadn’t been ordered to—and if his whiskey ration hadn’t been threatened.
“Don’t make Morgan ask again,” Finnen said. “This knife does magic on legs.”
Finnen ripped the tape off Dunne’s face, making our former boss frown with the pain. He spit out a few gummy strands and tried to move forward.
“You already have guessed.” Dunne said. “You got a little too close for some people to tolerate. They want to keep their pensions, as well as retire with the suitcases full of cash they’ve already stowed.”
“Names,” I said.
“Won’t do you any good,” Dunne said. “You can’t get anywhere close. You’ll be hunted down and slaughtered well before you can make it back to Virginia. Or the Hamptons.”
“So it’s simple,” I said. “No intrigue. We were just unfortunate to stumble onto something outside our brief. And now we’ve been slated for extermination.”
“That’s about it,” Dunne said. “If you would have just done strictly as you were told, you’d still be in the rock pile shooting bad guys and eating Big Macs in the PX.”
Ambition. It wasn’t what drove me, Washington, or Finnen. Ambition was the siren song of the CIA lifers. I had joined to do something that would make me feel proud, useful, and inspired. The longer I stayed with the Company, the more I realized everyone’s personal agenda wasn’t the same. I had no thoughts of buying an island and retiring on drug, oil, or arms money. I was an adrenaline junky who believed in angels and fought the eternal battle. Greed wasn’t in my portfolio, unlike so many others I met, even though they were often my superiors. I wasn’t quite sure if we would throw Dunne out the cabin door over the Bay of Bengal. Or turn him loose to chase us around with the help of unlimited funding and technology. We probably needed to vote on this one. I already knew Finnen’s choice. Slow, agonizing death. Washington was a wild card.
The young girl from Dostum’s bed still slept in the land of narcotic dreams, but there was the problem of Khkulay. She was taking it all in, her body remaining tight and tense. Whether she could understand was another issue. I would find a safe haven for her, in Thailand or somewhere else. She was not going back to Afghanistan to be blinded and raped by the Taliban. I had never been married or had children, but I felt as responsible for Khkulay as any parent.
It was quiet in the cockpit. Washington must have been his most convincing. If he was hovering over me with those bowling-ball biceps and chilling smile, I’d do what he said too, if only on the off chance he might spare me from being crushed in his grip.
The atmosphere in back had become less stressed. While I thought of possible futures, Finnen was off dreaming of swimming in casks of fourteen-year-old Scotch,
the Jameson’s warming in his fist. Dunne grimaced, the bleeding now over and the pain overcoming shock. Khkulay gaped around the cabin, mostly watching Dunne squirm. I decided to go forward and check on Washington to hear what plans he’d made to get us to Chiang Rai. It was almost two thousand miles on a deadhead from where we were now to northern Thailand. And we would have to stay out of Chinese airspace, filing phony flight plans with other governments if needed, all the time trying to avoid CIA detection. There wouldn’t be any orthodox path for this journey, since we’d be ducking several air forces on route. From looking out the windows, I could see we were barely past the Hindu Kush and flying at low elevation to stay off the screens. It was forest and rivers below, splendors I couldn’t appreciate in the moment.
“Keep an eye on the prisoner,” I said. “We wouldn’t want him to escape.”
“I hope he tries,” Finnen said. “We’re short parachutes.”
Washington was standing behind the pilots, a hand on the back of each man’s chair, his feet braced against the side compartments. He was monitoring the instrument panels and listening to the radio on the co-pilot’s headphones. No one was speaking.
“Got it all figured?” I asked.
Without turning, Washington said, “If we make it past the ’stan countries, through Pakistan, across India, and then over Burma and a few other dots on the map, we could just squeak into Thailand. We’re trying.” He patted each pilot’s shoulder. “These boys know if we get shot down, they’re as cooked as the rest of us. I think they’ll do their darnedest. If not, I told them the story of how I strangled those hadjis outside Jalalabad.”
The next few hours were spent watching out the wind screen and listening to Washington hum Al Green tunes in his deep bass voice. He seemed to be having fun, especially when he purred “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart.” Earlier, I’d brought him a crate from the back to sit on. The wooden box previously held a supply of Heckler and Koch G3 5.56mm semi-auto rifles and clips of ammunition. There was more to the arsenal in the pantry, including pistols, grenades, helmets, and flak jackets. It appeared the CIA was ready for a shootout no matter whether they landed in the Korengal or San Francisco.
Eventually, I tired of Al Green and went back to the main cabin, where Finnen was totally polluted and serenading Dunne with quotes from William Butler Yeats, the famous fellow Irishman. Now, it was “The Drinking Song,” Finnen’s favorite. He was reciting in his sing-song voice full of blarney—
“WINE comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.”
Dunne wasn’t impressed, but the melody and words made Khkulay beam.
We’d been flying for several hours at just above the jungle canopy, skirting restricted areas as best as the pilots could manage. With radio silence now in effect, we had no idea if the plane was being tracked. It would be surprising if it wasn’t. There was no need to descend more than a few hundred feet for landing, and I guessed we were getting close to the private Thai airfield Washington had suggested.
After giving Finnen a moment to recover from his moving delivery by draining the Jameson’s, I motioned him to the pantry. We organized the weapons as logically as possible, aware that, if we were attacked, we’d be completely outnumbered and under-equipped. And probably dead. I stuck the Hush Puppy under my belt, ammo clips and grenades in my pockets, shouldering the H & K, and took a rifle and Sig Sauer P226 to Washington, setting them down just behind him. I returned to my seat, not bothering to buckle up.
As the Gulfstream got closer to the jungle floor, the plane started to sharply plunge and turn. Washington had warned me we would be taking evasive actions, even if we weren’t being tailed by anything specific.
“Wooo . . .” Finnen moaned, grabbing the armrest of his padded chair. “Feels like that night I spent in the Guinness Brewery after I got locked in. It was an accident, surely.” He groaned louder. “Found meself on the floor, but I thought I was in the middle of the ocean in a typhoon.”
Khkulay was losing color in her face, turning the white of Taliban turbans in her province. The dipping of the jet must have felt like riding an angry donkey with a fire ant in its ear.
From the cockpit, Washington shouted, “Hold tight, amigos! We’re landing shortly, and it could be a rough one.”
Now that he’d quit losing blood, Dunne was more relaxed, except when the Gulfstream lurched hard and the pain made him scowl. I figured he believed there would be a rescue squad of Special Ops soldiers waiting. Could be, but he wasn’t going to survive the attack if they were our greeting party.
The cabin began to smell more of sweat and fear. There was even a hint of sick drifting from Finnen. It seemed the turbulence had broken through the Jameson’s haze and caused his stomach to spasm and release toxins.
Jungle green gleamed and sparkled out the window, the result of an afternoon monsoon that had dropped its daily torrent of rain. The sky was the dull gray of Southeast Asia, unbroken by any blue, a few dark clouds on the horizon. Below, we passed over a river, and I knew we were in the Golden Triangle, home to some of the fiercest drug dealers and warlords in the world outside of Afghanistan or Mexico. Here, the soldiers didn’t stop at decapitation. They cut enemies into little pieces and fed them to the crocs. Or just threw the whole living body into the pen and laughed as the beasts thrashed around, eating.
Recent events had made us hunted men by powerful foes with unlimited budgets. I wasn’t too naïve to grasp that evil infected every level of the human species, particularly heinous among those who purported to be our political and moral leaders. For a period a few years back, I’d been mesmerized studying the depth of lies and ruthless depravity that had surrounded decision-making old men during the Vietnam War and had paid great interest in the fiend Henry Kissinger, a man who didn’t deserve to still walk the earth with his slicked-back greasy hair. It was decrepit old villains who couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag who sent healthy innocent young men out to die for the sake of ego and dollars, all in the bogus claim of patriotism. And Finnen, Washington, and I were, again, part of some veiled conspiracy that would only mean our bloody demise. Too many times I’d excused my behavior with the misguided justification I was “just following orders.” Not again. Not when we were being trailed and slated for extermination and had done nothing worse than uncover a nest of snakes. I held tightly to the seat, wondering if this would be my last landing.
The plane bounced hard, and the pilot hit the brakes, not allowing much of a roll-out. A few feet away, the jungle seemed to be about to start devouring us. No buildings or people were in sight. The engines quieted, and Finnen pushed open the cabin door, letting in the sound of an angry jungle. Rotting vegetation stench and the ever-present smoky smell of the third world drifted into the room, almost making me retch. Khkulay put her hand over her mouth, and her eyes became watery. Dunne was on high alert, his injured legs bouncing in expectation of imminent freedom.
From the cockpit, Washington shoved the two pilots into the main cabin and told them to sit in the seats vacated by Finnen and me. He quickly tied them down with plastic restraints and joined us by the door. All of us had our rifles pointed out. We scanned the runway and dense canopy for armed men.
Nothing. No SEALs, monkeys, elephants, or rice farmers. Too quiet. The jungle noise had ceased, and the only sound was rainwater dripping onto the decaying ground. Something was making the insects and animals hush. There was no way we could see into the thick forest. A battalion might be out there, and we wouldn’t see them. Quite different from Afghanistan, where the bleak, empty landscape and crystalline sky usually allowed a few klicks of clear, unobstructed vision.
From behind, Dunne began to laugh.
“Gonna shit yourselves?” he asked. “That’s good. Then you won’t do it in your death rattle.
I always thought that was disgusting. And unmanly.”
Without a sound and a movement too quick to register, Finnen threw his knife, the blade settling deep into Dunne’s upper arm.
“If you say a word or make any noise, arsehole,” Finnen hissed, “I’ll pull out that knife and stick it between your legs where your tiny willy hangs.”
Dunne slumped back, no longer so enthusiastic.
Not bothering to put down the staircase, Washington jumped and rolled when he hit the dirt, never taking his eyes off the bush. Finnen followed, while I stayed onboard, searching for bogies in the tree line. There was no strategizing. We were highly trained and had been in enough firefights together and individually. We knew what to do. If there were bad guys, we’d find out soon enough and take whatever cover we could.
The plane may have had GPS tracking installed. In fact, it surely did. Taking the evasive route we flew meant it would take a little time to scramble troops to annihilate us if they knew our present location, and even the CIA would be reluctant to enter friendly airspace with Predator Drones to blow us into rice kernels. I motioned for Khkulay to follow me, glancing briefly at Dunne and the pilots who were all snugged tight to their seats.
A slight tremor vibrated from Khkulay’s hand when she touched my back to keep from fainting, and her black eyes bulged like she had Graves Disease. The young girl didn’t notice, drool leaking from her mouth, her eyes closed, and her drugged stupor still evident.
“Stay behind me,” I said. “We’re gonna jump. I’ll help you from the ground.”
No more than ten feet to soft soil. Not a problem for a young woman like Khkulay, and I’d done a lot of these kinds of leaps at Camp Peary, aka, The Farm. I went first, immediately turning to Khkulay and motioning her down. No hesitation. She tucked and rolled as if she’d been a combat classmate back in The World.
The firing started seconds after impact. From the sound, the bullets came from AK47s with their muffled, dull rat-a-tat. We could see the riflemen behind several banyan trees, and it didn’t look as though there were more than a few. By the way the slugs missed us, it was apparent these were not coming from America’s strong and brave. More likely, they were a band of hastily assembled locals who had little experience other than murdering unarmed peasants. We took our time and picked them off one by one, a couple survivors disappearing into the bush, one helping a wounded buddy who’d been shot in the leg.