by Ron Lealos
As usual, the mad minute lasted about that long, though it felt like hours and was nothing anyone really got comfortable with. A few seconds of insanity, noise, and terror, followed by almost unbearable silence. I grabbed Khkulay and pushed her toward a small hut I’d noticed a hundred yards away. Finnen and Washington followed, walking backward and protecting the flanks.
There was no discussion about what to do with Dunne and the pilots. Or the blacked-out girl. We weren’t murderers and had never intended to kill any of them unless that was the only option. Finnen did shoot out the Gulfstream’s tires, though. And Washington had disabled the radios earlier. The worst for the prisoners would be a few mosquito bites until someone came to the rescue. I didn’t care if that was drug thugs who might slaughter them for sport or CIA agents ordered to quiet the man. I was admittedly worried about the girl, but didn’t believe she would come to any harm worse than what she faced with Dostum—though I did hope a fate better than that was in store for her.
In the thatched hut, I stood next to Washington. The only things in the space were a few rickety chairs, empty Chang beer bottles, and pictures of topless white women on the walls. It was stuffy and airless, smelling of grease and shit. The thin walls wouldn’t provide any barrier to rifle shots. Or even blowguns. We had to get out soon.
“Where’s the liberating army?” I asked. “Is this another SNAFU? Or did you forget to make the call?”
Washington grinned, never taking his eyes off the surrounding jungle.
“Don’t piss yourself, Morgan,” he said. “It already stinks in here.”
“Then what’s next, genius?”
“I’ll just bet you the next sound heard will be a Huey. One of those left behind when the Army scampered out of ’Nam.”
“The next sound I hear will be a runny fart,” Finnen said from the other side of Washington. “I’m still sufferin’ from that landing and some bad whiskey. If there ever was such a thing.”
Washington ignored Finnen for probably the thousandth time. Today.
“Those old helicopters are popular with the Chin Haw gangs who now dominate the Triangle,” Washington said. “Their clan is of Chinese descent and has taken over much of the opium trade coming out of Burma, Laos, and Thailand. I’ve had some small history with Ma Hseuh-fu, the billionaire lord.”
“How’d you contact them?” I asked. “And how do you know the Fu guy?”
“Ever heard of a cell phone?” Washington said, taking his phone out of his pocket and holding it up. “You push this little button here. Then this one. And, shockingly, I’ve got Fu on the line.” He put the phone away. “As for how I found his number, that’s for another time. Unless you want to beat me again, I’m not telling. And probably not then, either.”
Washington was spot on, as Finnen would say. The chopper landed, and we raced outside. Two fearsome Chinese men dressed in black helped us inside. The Huey lifted off straight away, and we headed north toward Burma.
The flight wasn’t very long, and, in a darkening sky, we landed in a jungle fortress complete with enough generators to light a small city. Our hosts were there to welcome us, and we were ushered inside a luxurious teak house with decks completely encircling the building and massive thatch roof. We were made comfortable and given ice-cold mango juice and cold washcloths to refresh. It must have been Washington’s past that was providing the luxury. Another mystery I couldn’t grasp, though I hoped it wasn’t a CIA intrigue, one among many that would keep me awake in the next few months.
Over the following two days, we tried to plan the next moves, knowing full well there would be a bounty on our heads and an international manhunt orchestrated by the Company. The search would be kept out of the eye of the media, publicity always the enemy of the Company.
Eventually, we agreed there was no way we could hide from the CIA. None of us were the kind of agents who had false identities and money stashed around the world. We’d been soldiers in war zones, not spies. But we also couldn’t stand and fight. That was ludicrous. One sortie from a Drone, and we were charcoal. We would have to use the intel we already possessed to broker a deal. And no one was better at tough negotiations than a Chinese drug lord. Fu would be our advocate. It came with a price. And her name was Khkulay.
The Chin Haws were Muslims and Fu was a fanatic. He’d been surprised and upset when we arrived with a girl. There was no way he wanted her to stay with infidels unescorted. If we didn’t make the deal, he’d likely take her from us anyway. Fu promised to protect Khkulay and raise her like she was another daughter. It took hours of argument, primarily from me, but it was finally settled we would leave Khkulay with Fu. While she eventually agreed, it was difficult for Khkulay to envision a future here, even if it meant she might still, someday, arrive inAmerica.
And then there was the past. The CIA had been in bed with Southeast Asian warlords for decades. Much money had been made through the relationship, both for the Company and the heroin traffickers. And the men in Langley who supervised. Fu doubtless had the number of the director of the Central Intelligence Agency on his speed dial.
When our bickering stopped, I was able to spend a few moments alone with Khkulay. She was understandably reluctant to stay with men she didn’t know in a green tropical land that was the complete opposite of the dry rockpile of her ancestry. But she knew she had escaped certain death and was thankful for the rescue. Against all her upbringing, we briefly hugged, and I felt like a father sending a daughter off to be married, with promises we would meet again.
Since I’d had the chance to say goodbye to Khkulay, we told Fu to go ahead. My mind still rattled with questions, mostly about Washington. Finnen’s brain, on the other hand, fast became seeped in gallons of yadong, the local home brewed alcohol. “Delicious,” he would repeat about fifty times an hour, licking his lips.
For now, we were all safe—including Khkulay, as a guest of the why and whatever Washington’s influence had produced. We knew the CIA wouldn’t bomb their most profitable partner outside of Afghanistan. And we had names and information that could initiate a Congressional investigation leading to imprisonment of many of the top bureaucrats in the Firm.
And so, we would wait.