The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  Sniper. Had Maison Andrepont fixed the game again?

  Helena’s men laid down a barrage of cover fire; Sarathoon leaped forward and pulled her behind the SUV. Chunky and his last man kept their heads down behind the Mercedes.

  Ben, hoping he’d been forgotten, crawled from the middle of the street to the sidewalk and reached cover behind the corner of a building. He glanced back at the firefight when Chunky’s last man fell. He looked around for a way out.

  Chunky hollered something in Thai, stopped firing, threw his pistol to the ground, and raised his hands. Helena’s men yelled at him as they moved from behind the SUV.

  As he backed away, Ben couldn’t take his eyes off the scene. Chunky stepped out from behind the Mercedes, exposed. Sarathoon grabbed him and delivered a quick thrust to the neck.

  Chunky fell to his knees, his hands grasping at his throat. Sarathoon reached into his waistband behind his back and pulled out something he strapped to his hands. He moved behind Chunky, metal blades— “Tiger’s Claws”—protruded from his fists. Sarathoon lashed both hands at Chunky’s back. His shirt shredded, splattering scarlet streaks across the ground. Chunky tried to scream, but no noise came out.

  Sarathoon moved in front of Chunky and stood him up. He slashed Chunky's torso with two left-right combinations. Ben gasped; blood spurted everywhere, and Chunky dropped to his knees again.

  Grabbing Chunky by the hair, Sarathoon swung at his throat. Shreds of flesh hung from his neck; his life essence gushed to the ground.

  He dropped the body and looked around.

  Ben’s heart pounded. Blood dripped from the steel claws onto the dirty street.

  Sarathoon stared in his direction and suddenly jogged toward him. Ben turned and sprinted up the street toward the noisy market.

  Great. Some Thai nut job who thinks he’s Wolverine is now chasing me.

  The light from the market hung a few feet above the tops of the canopies, giving the market an eerie glow like a lighthouse beacon in the fog, telling the ships where to go. Ben ran up the dark alley toward the light, as if the Heavenly Father were calling his name. If Sarathoon caught him, he might meet his maker sooner than he anticipated.

  Ben maintained his pace and dove into the crowd, weaving and dodging, his lungs sucking in dust-laden air. He needed to get to the other side of the market to find a taxi. The crowd thickened and slowed him down. Sarathoon was closing. He ran another thirty yards and glanced back again.

  Sarathoon was nowhere to be seen amid the stalls and shoppers and street performers. Ben slipped into a small, shadowy space between two vendors, his back against a solid wall. He clenched his fists and crouched to blend into the darkness. His breaths came in heavy gasps; sweat poured from his body.

  His eyes never stopped searching for signs of his pursuer, but after two hours, he was confident Sarathoon was gone. Ben crept out of his hiding place and into the thinning crowd. He was agitated for not being in control. None of this was supposed to happen. Now he had only one place to go.

  Ben reached the outskirts of the market and waved down a taxi.

  “Hotel Metropolitan?”

  The driver nodded. “Meter broke.” Ben ignored him and crawled in, closing his eyes as his head fell against the seat.

  The drive took almost forty-five minutes to reach the hotel. For the first time since the gunfight, his thoughts turned back to Helena. She was the reason he was here.

  Pulling up to the front door of the hotel, the driver turned and held up four fingers, “Four hundred baht.”

  “What?” He started to argue—and then noticed the blank meter. The driver started yelling in Thai, and Ben noticed people in front of the hotel looking at them.

  Ben reluctantly paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. At the front desk, the petite clerk looked up and smiled.

  “Hohk suun jet,” Ben said.

  "Very good, Mister Ben. Six zero seven." She pulled his room key from the slot behind her.

  Ben took the key and stuck it in his pocket. “Khop khun mâak,” he said, placing his hands together, bowing slightly. “Thank you.”

  She giggled as he left the desk. “You are welcome, very much.”

  Exhausted, Ben shuffled to the elevator and pressed the ‘UP’ button. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside. He found the ‘6’ button, pressed it, and leaned back against the wall, his chin on his chest, eyes struggling to stay open. The doors began to close when a hand reached in.

  The man entered and stood next to Ben before the doors slid shut. The elevator rose. For the first time, Ben lifted his head to see the face of the man beside him.

  Sarathoon.

  His eyes grew wide with terror. The kickboxer, now wearing slacks and a jacket, pushed the emergency stop button and brought the elevator to an abrupt halt. The alarm bell rang, shattering the silence.

  Sarathoon thrust his right knee in Ben’s stomach, doubling him over in pain. He lifted him under the arms and slammed him into the side of the elevator. The Thai kickboxer delivered two quick blows to Ben’s mid-section. Collapsing to the floor, he looked up to see Sarathoon’s fist smashing into the side of his face. His vision fading, the last thing Ben heard was the alarm still ringing . . .

  2

  October 11, 2003

  Captain Jason Conrad adjusted his sunglasses as he sat behind the controls in the left seat of the MC-130P Shadow at twenty-two thousand feet. The radiant yellow orb sat about a beer can’s height above the glare shield covering his flight instruments. The horizon blended a mixture of warm reds and yellows, gradually shifting to white, then a gradation of cooler blues.

  He set his hand against the window. Despite the high altitude, the sun beating down on it the last seven hours made it warm. Jason and his crew spent most of the day chasing the sun westward over the South China Sea. Eighty miles off the coast of Vietnam, Jason’s plane pulled the night sky behind them. He divided his time between monitoring the autopilot and staring at the vast body of water below, listening to the banter of his crew.

  Jason wiped the lone bead of sweat that rolled down the side of his cheek before reaching down and opening the gasper fan, blowing more cool air toward his face. He did not know what to expect when they landed in Bangkok. His squadron commander had been vague when he called him two days ago to build a crew for this two-day trip. All Jason knew was the tasking. Fly to Bangkok, retrieve an old ROTC buddy—Ben Harris—and return him to Okinawa the next day.

  The unusual thing was, Ben did not belong to his unit, the 17th Special Operations Squadron, or the parent unit, the 353rd Special Operations Group. Ben belonged to the Pacific Air Forces wing that ran Kadena Air Base on Okinawa. The Air Force never spends this kind of money for one individual to return to the island—unless it’s bad. This must be bad.

  “You okay up there, pilot?” Master Sergeant John Martinez said. Martinez was the flight engineer. A fourteen-year enlisted troop, he came to the MC-130P from Hurlburt Field in Florida, where he previously flew the AC-130U gunship. His voice came over the inter-phone, louder than the steady drone of the four turboprop engines, each synchronized with the other to minimize vibration and sound.

  Jason glanced over his right shoulder. Martinez sat between and slightly aft of the two pilots, where he could keep his focus on the systems of the aircraft. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Jason said. “Just thinking.”

  “You’ve been that way for the past two hours.”

  “Nah. Just thinking.”

  “Yeah, thinking about a night in Bangkok,” First Lieutenant Jimmy Olds said from the right pilot seat. A bright-eyed young co-pilot from Southern California, Jimmy relished every opportunity to try something new.

  “Hey, co, we’ll pour some Mekong down your throat and take you to Soi Cowboy. Kind of like your ‘welcome to Bangkok’ trip,” the voice of the loadmaster, Lon Howell said. The tone of Lon’s voice implied the young lieutenant had no idea what to expect. “I’ll introduce you to Sam over at the Tilac Club.”r />
  “We’re not going to have time for any of that kind of stuff, load,” Jason said. “We’ll fly in, go to the hotel, get our guy in the morning, and fly out. Min turn time.”

  “Damn, pilot,” Jimmy murmured, “you used to be fun.” On the C-130, crewmembers address each other by crew position, instead of names, to alleviate any confusion.

  “Yeah, pilot,” Lon added, “you used to be fun. It must be true— No mission, too demanding.”

  Jason chuckled. “Sorry, load.” Lon made fun of the squadron motto—No Mission Too Demanding. With a comma in the middle, the motto took on a whole new meaning. While the rest of the world seemed to be engaged in the global war on terror, the 17th SOS was still stuck in the Pacific.

  With a quick peek at the floor to his left, Jason confirmed the leather satchel still sat in its place. A team would meet him at the airport to take delivery once he passed through customs. He took a swig from his water bottle, then secured the cap and set it back down in his helmet bag nestled next to the satchel.

  They rode without speaking for another five minutes, the drone of the engines lulling their senses. The aircraft made a lazy right turn to the northwest and entered the Gulf of Thailand.

  “You still dating that hot reporter, pilot?” Martinez said, breaking the silence.

  “Wait! What hot reporter?” Jimmy sat upright and turned to Jason. “Pilot, have you been holding out on me?”

  “No,” Jason clenched his teeth. “Same-old story. The long-distance relationship strikes again.”

  “Tell me about her. I’m visualizing the kind of woman you would date,” Jimmy said.

  Martinez leaned forward and tapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “Classic chassis. Think of a young Raquel Welch. Smokin’ hot. Nice lady, too.”

  “Who’s Raquel Welch?” Jimmy replied.

  Martinez burst out laughing. “Wow, co, you’re showing your age. She’s like a Pamela Anderson with red hair.”

  “Hey,” Jason butted in, “Raquel Welch has a lot more class.”

  “I was referring to sex-appeal.”

  Jimmy looked at Jason, stunned. "What? How could you not marry a woman like that?"

  Not comfortable with the direction this was going, Jason knew he had no choice. “It’s complicated.”

  “Nothing is complicated when you’re stuck on Okinawa with zero dating prospects,” Jimmy said.

  “She works for The New York Times . . . can’t handle the fact I can’t tell her what we do most of the time. We’ve taken a break since I upgraded to aircraft commander. Still friends . . . I guess. Haven’t heard from her in a while.”

  Jason stared out the side window. It was easier to push her out of his thoughts these days. He needed a break from women, and Jimmy was right; the dating life for an officer in Okinawa proved limited.

  “You thought about the decision you have to make, pilot?” Martinez said.

  “Huh?”

  “You know—go to instructor school or put in for a gunship assignment.”

  “No. I mean, yeah. I mean, that’s been on my mind, too.”

  “It’s an easy decision, pilot,” Martinez reasoned. “You’re a gunship kind of guy. You need to be in the fight, blowing shit up.”

  Jason grinned at the comment. Martinez was right, he needed to be in the fight. As America began another year in the Global War on Terror, he had seen none of it. His career lagged far behind his peers. He'd done everything he could to get temporary duty to the Middle East or Afghanistan but had been unsuccessful.

  The MC-130P was one of Air Force Special Operations Command's (AFSOC) newest weapons system, providing airpower for Army and Navy special operations forces (SOF). Built on the standard C-130 airframe, the aircraft still had the 132-foot wingspan, length of ninety-eight feet, and a maximum takeoff weight of 155,000 pounds. The new plane had some benefits: upgraded avionics, an improved radar, night-vision-goggle (NVG) compatible lighting, a forward-looking infrared ball, known as the FLIR ball. The FLIR ball helped crews navigate in the low-level structure on the MC-130P tactical missions. It also possessed air-refueling pods hung on pylons below each wing. The aircraft was AFSOC’s primary tanker for SOF helicopters.

  Some of the old-timers argued the plane did not have the capability of the higher-tech Talon II. Bullshit, this plane was so technologically advanced, it should have been called something besides a C-130. But, after a year as a co-pilot and six months as an aircraft commander, Jason was looking for something different. He knew it would be tough to leave the 17th. The guys and gals in his squadron were topnotch. The Jakals were considered the underdogs in the 353rd SOG at Kadena. He liked being the underdog.

  He liked being the underdog.

  He shifted in his seat and did a quick scan of the engine instruments running vertically in the center of the instrument panel. The number four engine exhaust gas temperature (EGT) gauge indicated somewhat higher than the other three engines. Jason pointed at the gauge and glimpsed back at his flight engineer.

  Martinez nodded. “Yeah, I been watching it.”

  “Dude, I don’t understand why you want to fly a gunship,” Jimmy said. “What could be better than flying low-level on night-vision goggles? Covert infil/exfil? Airdropping SOF troops? Refueling SOF helicopters? Plus, our TDYs are bitchin’ compared to the rest of AFSOC.”

  Jason nodded as he watched the EGT gauge slowly climb, his co-pilot oblivious to what they observed. Not that Jimmy was a bad pilot. He wasn’t. His excitement to go on another new adventure in a new location simply clouded his situational awareness.

  Jason grimaced. “The Shadow has a fun mission, and I enjoy the TDYs . . . I just think I wanted more when I joined the Air Force.”

  “Rumor is we’re going to start operations in the Philippines again soon. That should get you in the fight.”

  “The squadron’s been part of the joint task force in the P.I., off and on, for years, co. You missed that. But if I’m going to be in the fight, I want to be shooting at something.”

  “If you’re shooting at something, don’t they tend to shoot back?”

  “Don’t be such a wuss,” Martinez said.

  “I’m not being a wuss, load,” Jimmy fired back. “Orbiting over a target for hours is making yourself a target.”

  Jason gave Jimmy an acknowledging nod. Flying gunships was a dangerous job.

  “That’s not what the pilot is thinking about.”

  Jason peered over his right shoulder, past Martinez. The voice came from one of the navigators, Chris Weaver.

  “What am I thinking about, nav?” Jason said.

  “You’re thinking about why we’re going to pick up your buddy, Ben Harris.”

  The sound of the engines pulsated in the background. Jason’s gaze lingered for a few seconds before returning to the enormous openness in front of him. Chris was right. It was Ben Harris that bothered him. They were best friends in Air Force ROTC at Louisiana State University. And Jason owed Ben. If it weren't for him, Jason might never have made it to pilot training.

  He started to reply when the flight deck vibrated with the sound of an alarm bell, accompanied by a steady green light on the panel above the window.

  “Engine fire, number four!” Martinez yelled.

  3

  October 11, 2003

  “Engine fire, number four,” Jason confirmed and disconnected the autopilot. A loud bang erupted on the co-pilot’s side of the aircraft as Jimmy punched off the fire-warning bell. “Boldface for engine fire. Condition lever—feather. Confirm number four.” Jason pointed at the number four condition lever.

  “Number four,” Jimmy confirmed, then grabbed the condition lever that mechanically shut off fuel, air, and oil to the engine.

  “Feather number four,” Jason commanded. The young co-pilot smoothly pulled the lever to the feather position; the sound of the engine winding down overwhelmed the hum of the other three engines. The propeller stopped spinning and streamlined all four blades into the wind. The hulking carg
o plane shimmied with the asymmetric thrust now provided by two engines on the left wing and one on the right. Instinctively, Jason added left rudder to counter the asymmetric thrust and raised the right wing five degrees. Not the worst possible scenario for them, shutting down the outboard engine, but it wasn’t optimum.

  Jason pointed at the fire handle with the green light illuminated. The light in the fire handle was green instead of red because the aircraft interior lights were night-vision-goggle compatible. “Fire handle—pull.”

  Jimmy reached up, pointing at the number four fire handle before grabbing it.

  Jason agreed. “You’ve got number four.” Jimmy pulled the T-shaped handle until it made a slight click and traveled no further.

  Martinez shook his head. “EGT is still high.”

  “Pilot. . . flames on number four,” Lon said from the cargo compartment.

  Jason did not hesitate. “Agent discharge.”

  Jimmy toggled the switch for the fire-retarding agent.

  After a quick cross-check of his flight instruments, Jason glanced over at Jimmy. "Cleanup."

  “Already on it,” Jimmy said, flipping switches, checking gauges, and reviewing his checklist.

  Jason added rudder trim into the two operating engines, then crosschecked his needle and ball, verifying the aircraft was more stable.

  “Pilot,” Lon said from the back, “prop is standing tall, but fire is still coming out of number four.”

  “Damn.”

  “Cleanup’s complete, pilot,” Jimmy said.

  “Eng, we’ve got one bottle left—what do you think?”

  “I think I’d rather land with two empty bottles than go swimming in the South China Sea,” Martinez said.

  “Concur, fire the second bottle.”