Sleepless in Bangkok

by Ian Quartermaine

  Steven’s judgement had apparently been faulty about scoring with the beautiful young Thai stewardess, and his testosterone-driven ego felt decidedly pissed off. But he refused to exhibit the emotion or the girl would have won.

  Still hesitant, the young stewardess followed up with a more positive response. “But maybe I can break the rules just this once. My European blood transgresses more easily than my Thai.”

  Steven realised he had only been wrong about his judgement being wrong.

  “Eurasian?” he enquired, the girl’s light skin already having supplied the answer.

  “Yes. But I must greet the mid-flight passengers. Would you be kind enough to return to your seat?”

  Steven smiled knowingly as the young woman changed from being a real person to that of a servant of the airline. But having no wish to cause any trouble should the head steward regard her especially friendly approach towards one particular passenger as a cultural or professional misdemeanour - Steven spoke softly. “I’ll meet you at the airport enquiries desk, soon after we’ve landed,” he said, more in hope than certainty.

  Gunn concluded the conversation in a more professional mode. “May I place your document case in the overhead locker, sir?”

  “Thanks but no. I might do some work,” Steven advised.

  As she left to attend to her in-flight duties - greeting a mix of European and Indian passengers as they came on board - Gunn glanced around to ensure that none of her colleagues were watching. Casually turning her head, she gave Steven a wai as she cheekily winked an eye, combining the best or worst of Eastern and Western cultures.

  With long dark hair swept back behind high cheek bones, her tiny butt wrapped in a layer of Thai silk, the beautiful young flight attendant was definitely giving Steven the eye.

  7

  A Definite Maybe

  After yet more ‘Thai Time’ in New Delhi, the aircraft slowly taxied across the heat-hazed tarmac. When it reached the designated take off point it stood stationary for a few seconds. Powering its engines like a racing car at the starting grid, the aircraft suddenly lurched forward and hurtled along the runway with the finesse of a Thai truck driver careering down a country road. Just as the passengers thought the craft would overshoot, it thrust a trajectory into the cloudless sky. Having sacked most of its highly paid farang pilots due to one of the country’s periodic economic melt-downs, travelling Royal Thai Airways could sometimes be an adventure.

  As the aircraft levelled out and the ‘Fasten Your Seat Belt’ signs extinguished, Gunn walked past like a model on the cat walk. Almost dropping the tray of drinks she was carrying, she appeared to be trying to gain Steven’s attention.

  “Would you like some refreshment, sir?” the young flight attendant enquired. The formality of her voice contrasted with her body language, which suggested that Steven was on the ‘definite maybe’ list to get inside her pants.

  “Later, when we have breakfast in Bangkok,” Steven replied, keeping his voice low to avoid publicly embarrassing the young Eurasian girl he hoped would brighten his stay in Thailand’s vibrant capital city.

  8

  Place of Last Resort

  Not looking forward to the prospect of another six hours on a plane, Steven was nevertheless glad to be away from the long British winter. Not having to confront the perpetual frowns of many of his countrymen would also be a relief. Whatever awaited in Bangkok could not be more tedious, dull or mediocre than waiting for the phone to ring in his small, rundown London apartment which also served as his office. Peeling wallpaper and ancient plumbing was something else he was glad to be leaving behind.

  Britain had become a country where basic civility was a thing of the past. It was fast catching up with New York, Detroit, and too many other urban conurbations in the West, where drug dealing, street violence, unemployment and general despair were the main growth industries. Steven had long since realised it was time to move on.

  Minus its now politically incorrect empire, self styled ‘Great’ Britain lacked confidence and a clear direction. It had become little more than a place of last resort when the chips were down.

  Unfortunately, since he’d been asked to resign from the SAS - Britain’s crack Special Airborne Services unit

  - the chips had been down for Steven John Hunt. That is, until the phone call which had led to his current assignment.

  Three years of leisure and pleasure in South East Asia - where money went farther and the food, climate and surroundings were more to his taste - created a situation where fucked up finances eventually forced his return. In an attempt to improve the situation, Steven decided to utilise his military training to earn something resembling an honest crust. It was now two years since his services as a security consultant had been quietly marketed in his country of birth.

  After it lost its empire, great causes were thin on the ground in Britain. This was followed by a period of uncertainty until Thatcherism created a ‘fuck you, get rich quick’ moral climate. After Maggie got screwed by her own party - almost all of them - honest John (Major) stepped into her shoes. They never fitted him, and he was kicked out of office with the greatest majority against any political party since women gained the vote. But with such bad suits and a dumb-assed voice, what could he expect. An ugly wife and the fact that his policies changed with the wind, did not help. After both Maggie and Johnny got the chop, a period of dull socialism and political correctness ensued. As Spike Milligan [*] once stated: “Mediocrity became the standard.”

  Terrorism was about the only security problem of any consequence in the UK, and had been confined to the Irish Republican Army’s periodic attempts to blow up railway stations, government buildings and the occasional politician. The British joke that the qualifications required to join the police were you had to ‘know’ someone who could read or write, had been confirmed by the fact that the IRA had continuously managed to strike wherever they wanted without getting caught.

  Despite some talk amongst former contacts in government departments about utilising Steven as an undercover operative in the Emerald Isle, he was not too surprised when his contacts in MI5 and MI6 did not return his calls. Despite their lack of success, the faceless civil servants in government and the boys in blue preferred to handle such long standing troubles themselves. But most of the Irishmen Steven had met had been all right guys, so he was not too disappointed. The IRA also had an excuse: the UK had colonised half their country for a few hundred years, brutalising many of its inhabitants.

  The real world was never simple, and despite being a former SAS officer, Steven found his services were similarly not required by government departments outside the UK. This was almost certainly due to the blot on his military record which followed his resume around. Attempts to persuade multinationals to use his counter intelligence services, similarly failed. Despite having loyally served his country for more than two decades, Steven found himself virtually unemployable.

  Even in the private sector, clients for Steven John Hunt’s freelance security services were few and far between. In fact the only counter intelligence he’d became involved with concerned the counters of grocery stores and other small operations, relating to the installation of their video surveillance systems.

  Other than a chance meeting with a personable young businessman able to frighten the shit out of company managers concerning stock shrinkage via staff pilfering, and shoplifting losses from the general public, even that would not have been obtained. In no-longerhonest Britain, business was brisk. Fortunately, the young entrepreneur’s knowledge was confined to marketing, so Steven had instantly become his technical adviser.

  Thus was the route by which Steven John Hunt had managed to eat and pay his local taxes. Not exactly what he had in mind when forced to do a real job for a change, after decades of adventure in the SAS.

  Deciding to use the time positively - aware that the course of his life almost certainly depended upon it Steven opened his leather document case and removed a
folder secured with ribbon like a barrister’s brief. With “Classified” stamped in government blue on the front cover, Steven untied the Victorian-looking package.

  Strictly Confidential. Copies to Field Marshal Chang; Mr. Rupert Montgomery-Fairfax; Security Officer Hunt.

  The cover was printed in a rather ancient-looking type style typical of the corridors of Whitehall, where computer word-processing was still considered to be some kind of revolutionary invention which might frighten the horses.

  [*] Spike Milligan was a founder member of The Goons. Awriter, actor and comedian, he and Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Michael Bentine created an anarchic form of comedy which satirised almost every British institution. The Goons predated “Monty Python’s Flying Circus”, whose members acknowledged the influence The Goons had on their similarly anarchic style of social satire.

  9

  The Past Returns

  The adrenaline charge which danger, uncertainty and conflict could engender, ultimately became something of an addiction. Not having to worry where the next meal was coming from was an almost childlike way of living. No wonder it appealed to so many guys. In the elite force of the British Army, Steven had also enjoyed the variation of never knowing what country he might suddenly find himself in. He missed it all.

  Commencing his service career at the tail end of the Vietnam War - one of the few conflicts Britain’s political masters had fastidiously avoided - Steven had been seconded to an Australian Special Forces unit operating undercover in Lao. This was followed by antiterrorist and police actions in various ex-colonial territories.

  Not that his experience at the sharp end counted for much any more, as initiative, courage and military skills were little needed in times of peace. In fact they were inconvenient attributes liable to rock the boat. In peacetime, only non thinking conformists were required as industrial or commercial cannon fodder. Inconvenient for Steven, he did not fit the mould.

  The aircraft thundering through the skies on its way to Thailand reminded Steven of the Cobra helicopters that had so often flown him over Vietnamese war zones and with Air America in Lao. Images of tough, combat hardened soldiers, many of whom would never return, plagued his mind.

  “It’s good to have you with us, mate,” a young Aussie officer had shouted over the roar of the chopper’s engine as it whumped, whumped into the air, leaving a swirl of dust and twigs in the mini-cyclone it had created below. To add to the lethal weapon that was the Huey, twin mounted, 600-rounds-per-minute M60 machine guns had been lovingly installed at the side doors. A kick-butt mission with a vengeance, the noise increased to earth shattering levels as the young pilot put the engine on full throttle and the combination of technology and manpower whooshed into the air.

  Knowing unofficial procedures well, and not wishing to have his nuts shot off, Steven sat on his flak jacket as the Huey embarked on its next mission to hell.

  This time the exercise was to rescue antipodean soldiers from behind enemy lines. But not only had what remained of the missing platoon failed to return, most of the team sent in to rescue them were lost. Steven had often wondered what fate was at work that had enabled him to survive, when so many of his comrades had been slaughtered.

  The horrors of life doing the dirty work for Britain’s political masters - whence they took the credit if it went right and sacked the men on the ground if it did not

  - stalked Steven’s senses.

  Walking down a dry-as-dust dirt road in Africa, armed to the teeth ready to shoot anything or anyone who came within range - in Africa’s multiple civil wars it was difficult to distinguish one side from the other, so shoot first and ask questions later was best policy - regurgitated images that still interrupted his sleep at times. Duty in the Gulf oil region followed.

  Yes, Major Hunt had found himself in some very sticky situations. This very British phrase had been picked up from Rupert Montgomery-Fairfax, Steven’s upper bracket, ex-public school commanding officer.

  Rupert Montgomery-Fairfax was younger and fitter then, and Steven’s memory of what was probably the blackest day in his life, always started with his former commanding officer pushing a folder across a desk. “These are your orders, Hunt. Full details of the mission inside. On a need to know basis of course. Top secret and all that.”

  Steven would never forget his reaction. “If we carry this out to the letter, the carnage will be appalling. Who the hell thought this one up?”

  Rupert had given an embarrassed smile. “Afraid it was me, old boy,” he had answered in his distinctive, strangulated-vowels manner of speech.

  Inside an Arab government building in Kuwait, hostages were being held by the PLO. Hoping to raise cash and gain publicity for their cause against Israel, they had stage managed something resembling a deadly media event.

  Outside in a ditch hidden from view, Steven gave a signal. Instantly the plastic explosive stuck to the entrance turned an ornately crafted teak door into so much matchwood. The Thai company paid to supply probably illegal teak wood from the rainforests north of Chiang Mai, upon which Siamese craftsmen had so lovingly executed the elaborate Arabic designs required by the Embassy who had commissioned it, would be required to create a replacement. So no one in Thailand would mourn the loss. In fact, company management and employees alike would drink numerous toasts of Mekong whisky to celebrate the event.

  Lacking any knowledge or interest in the yin yang event which their explosive military initiative had just accomplished for a handful of Thai craftsmen and the nation’s trade balance, Steven and his team stormed through the empty space where a heavy teak door once stood. Running up a flight of stairs, the door demolition exercise concluded when they kicked in and rifle-butted through a standard office version.

  In a large conference room, a group of Arab and European hostages lay tied up on the floor. Coughing and half blinded by the effects of four smoke grenades which had smashed through the windows as the door to the room had been kicked in, the mix of captive and captor desperately tried to move out of the line-of-fire as Steven and his men burst in. Simultaneously, an assault emanating from the roof of the building sent another of Steven’s men crashing through the window on a rope.

  Forces emanating from more than one direction plus the element of surprise, assisted the invaders. First to fire, the blood spattered bodies of their Arab targets hit the ground in quick succession, covering the hostages in gore.

  One terrorist - who had managed to forget his oath to die for Allah and had moved quickly to hide in a stairwell - was spotted by one of Steven’s men. An M26 grenade blew the man’s pistol and his left arm away. Left handed Arabs were rare, and in the second he took to ensure the man was fully disabled, the young British soldier silently noted the fact for future reference.

  In a desperate attempt to save himself, a terrorist inside the main room grabbed a hostage as cover. Ignoring his cut and bleeding hand, the soldier who had just arrived through the window aimed his automatic. But he hesitated for a moment, unwilling to risk the life of the hostage. The terrorist seized the moment and fired a volley into the soldier’s chest.

  A mix of surprise and resignation momentarily appeared on the young soldier’s face as a hail of lead propelled him backwards through the window from which he’d just come. The dull thud of his body as it crashed to the ground outside, could be heard in the moment of silence which followed.

  The bullet that hit the hostage-taking terrorist between the eyes, shattered the silence. His head instantly exploded and a mix of skull, brain and blood splattered across the almost perfectly painted whitewashed wall behind. Like some kind of perverse action painting, the lifeblood of what had once been a human being remained as visual testimony to the violence that had just occurred. If nothing else, Steven had always been a good shot.

  Synchronous with his passage to Islamic paradise, the terrorist’s trigger finger twitched as he slumped to the floor. The involuntary burst of fire instantly executed three hostages. The man he had be
en holding remained safe, but a woman and two young girls huddled close by, fell to the ground almost as one, blood spouting from the multiple gunshot wounds that had torn the life from their now motionless bodies. Shrieking in despair, the man prostrated himself over their crumpled forms.

  Contrary to their oath to die for the cause, the sight of so many dead comrades persuaded the remaining terrorists to surrender. Babbling in Arabic, they threw down their weapons.

  Steven surveyed the scene. The plan had been as subtle as a Hollywood gun fight in a crowded saloon. As he had predicted, the carnage was appalling.

  “The Arab chappies are a bit upset,” MontgomeryFairfax had said in an informal meeting before the official enquiry. “Don’t want to rub it in, but far too many hostages dead and wounded. Looked European, but the hostage you and your man through the window tried to save was an important sand-nigger in these parts. The woman and girls who died were his wife and children. I know you executed the perpetrator, but they are blaming you personally for that one. Perverse Arab logic. Can’t blame me, old sport. But someone has to carry the can and as you were in charge on the ground, afraid it’s you. To save having to sack you and the whole matter becoming public, I would suggest you quietly tender your resignation and leave the force. Sorry Hunt, as I almost liked you.”

  Montgomery-Fairfax had politely passed blame across the table to Steven.

  “They were your orders and I warned you what could happen, yet I carry the can. Fuck you,” Steven had said in his own defence.

  “Understand your annoyance, but I’m afraid you’ve got the chop whatever way you look at it,” Rupert had answered. “Better take your gratuities and run, old thing. You’ll get a few months pay and all that kind of stuff. I’m sure you have some savings after more than two decades in the force.”

  Rupert’s family had been in the military for fifteen generations, and his connections in the corridors of power influenced events. Blame for the Arab affair was neatly shifted sideways to Steven John Hunt - the man in charge on the ground. The commanding officer who had drawn up the fatally flawed battle plan - cleverly ensuring he was not personally in the line of fire - remained snowy white.