They approached the van, and the old man walked up to Jason.
“Cap-i-tan Jason,” he said, flashing a broad smile. “So good to see you again.” Jason reached to shake his hand. Before he could, Chaow placed his hands together in front and bowed slightly at the waist. Wai, the polite greeting in Thailand. Jason returned the gesture.
“Good to see you, old friend,” Jason said. “This is my crew. Where’re we heading tonight?”
He squinted. “Oh. . . very nice hotel. Downtown Bangkok. Much to see while you are here. How long you stay?”
“I don’t know. We lost a couple of engines flying in, and I’m not sure how long that will take to fix.”
The old man's eyes narrowed, and his smile faded as he tried to process what Jason said. His English was adequate but sometimes not adequate enough. Jason had learned it was better to let Chaow think about it rather than forcing an explanation.
Chaow grabbed the bags from the crew and started to pack them in the back of the van. It was a large van by Thai standards, but they needed a vehicle for eight crewmembers. Jason’s team piled into the weathered van, and he climbed into the passenger seat next to Chaow. The seams of the plastic covered seat split open along the sides.
“You want food?”
Jason looked back at his crew, but before he could respond, he was met with a chorus of “Hell yes!”
“I know good kaow paht stand close by. No place for food at hotel. Restaurant closed this time of night.”
Jason grinned. He knew Chaow’s game. The restaurants in and around the hotel were probably still open—Chaow was just trying to steer some business to a friend or relative. It was fine. The old man never let him down before.
“Sounds great,” Jason said, nodding.
“What’s a cow pot stand?” Jimmy said from the back of the van.
“It’s actually k-a-o-w p-a-h-t,” Chris said. “Fried rice. You can usually get it with chicken or pork. And it will cost about three bucks for a big-ass plate of the stuff. It’s awesome.”
“Thank God,” Jimmy said. “I’m starving.”
Chaow drove the van a quick five-minute ride from the airport to a small neighborhood. He pulled up to what appeared to be a house and climbed out of the van. The crew stepped out and followed Chaow to the front door.
“This very good restaurant,” Chaow said. They walked through an entrance to a courtyard to someone’s home. In the courtyard, an old woman leaned over an oversized wok, stirring a mixture of chicken, rice, onion, carrots, tomato, and spices. Several white plastic tables and accompanying chairs covered the open area.
“Looks like they were expecting us,” Lon said.
“Yes, it does,” Jason said grinning. Good old Chaow. Always taking care of everyone. His mouth salivated; the scent of canola oil, fish sauce, and garlic mingled with the jasmine rice, fried egg, and chicken. The aroma caused his stomach to stir.
The crew sat around the small plastic tables. A young girl about twelve approached Jimmy.
“Beer Singh?” she said cautiously.
Jimmy seemed nervous. He glanced at Martinez, who started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Jimmy complained.
“She’s asking you if you want a beer,” Martinez said. “Singha is the local beer in Thailand.”
Lon chimed in. “Co, we are going to have so much fun with you while we’re here.”
Martinez ordered a combat sized beer for everyone using the local language. The old woman smiled and spoke to him when she realized he could speak Thai. Martinez nodded, then turned back to his table.
“Okay, guys, chicken and rice is all there is this time of night. She said she’ll take American dollars if we don’t have any baht.” Each of the crewmembers, except Jimmy, had plenty of baht from previous visits to the country. The young girl brought out eight 21.3-ounce bottles of beer and distributed them around the table.
The crew ate and drank for the next hour and fifteen minutes. The young girl gave a handwritten receipt to everyone. Each table collected the money and handed it to Martinez. He gave everything to the girl, who scanned through the receipts and payments. She started talking in earnest to the older woman, who glared at the aircrew.
Martinez leaned in. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s going on?” Jason said. Chaow rose across the courtyard.
“I think we’ve got a ‘dine and dasher’ in our midst.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No,” Martinez said. “Sounds like someone didn’t pay.”
Jason fumed inside, his eyes narrow and his teeth clenched. He stood to address his crew when Chaow moved closer.
“Guys,” Jason said, speaking before Chaow could scold them, “it appears someone, in their excitement, has forgotten to pay for their food. Let me remind you that we are perhaps this family’s only source of income this week. They have invited us into their home and fed us at a very reasonable price. So, I’m only going to say this once, then I’ll get the receipts from the little girl, and we’ll go over each receipt until we figure out who didn’t pay.”
Jason watched the crew members look around at each other, some of their faces starting to burn with anger, as well. After a few seconds, Dan Thomas reached under his empty plate and produced a receipt.
“Sorry, Jason, I guess it’s me,” Thomas said. “I-I guess I thought I paid it. Too much beer, you know.”
Jason walked over to the other navigator on the crew, the one who slept all the way here while Chris did all the work. Thomas pulled out his wallet and retrieved a ten and two one-dollar bills. He drank four beers within the hour, but that was no excuse. Thomas was a cheap bastard. Jason took the money from him and held out his hand.
“You forgot the tip,” Jason said.
“Bullshit,” Thomas said. “I tipped over a dollar.”
“You’ve embarrassed this crew, our squadron, and the US Air Force. Give them another twenty.”
“What?”
“You’re going to tip that little girl another twenty bucks, or so help me, I’ll have your ass on another plane back to Okinawa . . . when I’m done kicking it.”
Thomas mumbled curse words under his breath and gave Jason a twenty. Jason handed the money to Martinez.
"Tell them, thank you for their hospitality. We are sorry for the misunderstanding and hope this will compensate for the confusion."
Martinez handed the girl the money and spoke in Thai. Her eyes grew wide, she smiled, and raced back to the old woman.
"Let's go, team," Jason said. "Thanks to Thomas, we've overstayed our welcome. Chaow, let's go to the hotel."
Chaow patted Jason on the back as they headed to the van.
“You good man, Cap-i-tan Jason. You good man.”
Jason nodded. His attention focused on Thomas, wondering if he was going to be more of a problem.
6
October 11, 2003
The crew arrived at the Landmark Hotel and piled into the lobby. They stood awestruck at the opulence of the place, laughing and joking as they patted each other on the back over their incredible fortune. Jason had stayed in plenty of fancy hotels over the years, but this? Perhaps one of the nicest. They set their bags in the center of the lobby, underneath a beautiful stained-glass atrium.
“You guys stay here,” Jason said. “I’ll check on the rooms.”
He marched to the reception desk. The receptionist smiled, nodded, and pointed to her left. Jason noticed Lieutenant Colonel McClendon in uniform, walking toward him.
Despite his exhaustion, he stood straight, arms by his side. “Good evening, sir.”
“Welcome to Bangkok, Captain Conrad,” the mission commander said, extending his hand. “I understand you had some problems on your arrival. You damn pilots keep breaking all the airplanes.”
Jason instinctively spied the navigator wings sewn on the colonel’s BDU blouse. He didn’t work for McClendon and was not familiar with his personality, so he let that one go. “Any idea when my eng
ines will arrive?”
McClendon shook his head. "I've got feelers out. Contacted home station, who notified AFSOC at Hurlburt. We're in the system, but given the current situation, it may be a while. The folks at JUSMAGTHAI are looking for engines, too. They've contacted the exchange pilot here at the 601 squadron about invoking the acquisition and cross-servicing agreement to acquire the engines. I think we won’t have a more definitive answer until tomorrow.” JUSMAGTHAI stood for Joint US Military Advisory Group, Thailand, a security cooperation organization.
Jason nodded as McClendon handed him a thick envelope.
“Here are your room keys. Tell your crew to get settled, and we’ll all meet in my suite in one hour. I want your guys to get a quick country in-brief, intel update, and ROE for your stay here.”
The crew gathered in the mission commander’s room on time. Jason could see the pain on his crew’s faces while they listened to Lieutenant Colonel McClendon’s indoctrination briefing for Thailand. A JUSMAGTHAI officer briefed them on some of the social norms of Thai culture, and an intel non-commissioned officer (NCO) filled them in on the potential terrorist threat in south Thailand. The crew—all but Jimmy, who’d never experienced any of this before—sat lackluster through everything except the ROE. This one, they paid attention to. Happily, no silly rules restricting them to the hotel were mentioned. They were thrilled to have several days in downtown Bangkok.
After the brief, Jason laid out the ground rules for his crew.
“No one goes anywhere outside this hotel alone. If you leave, slip a note under my door with who’s going where—and when you anticipate being back. There will be a crew meeting every morning at eleven hundred hours.” The crew moaned. He didn’t care; he needed to keep his guys in check. Jason was all for having fun—he just didn’t want anyone getting out of control, which can happen very quickly in Bangkok.
“You guys enjoy yourselves. I’ll see you in the morning,” Jason said as the crew split up.
“Captain Conrad, stick around,” McClendon said.
“Yes, sir.”
Jason’s crew waved goodbye and raced out the door with smiles on their faces. Jason turned to face the mission commander.
“Sir?”
McClendon sat in a chair opposite him and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
"I appreciate the classified material you brought over." The look on his face became more serious. "The satchel contains the COMSEC for next week." COMSEC is the radio code used for secure radio transmissions.
“I figured that.”
“You do know that wasn’t your primary mission coming over here, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Jason said. “We’re bringing back Ben Harris.”
“Good, then you’ve been in-briefed.”
“Not totally, I know he’s under arrest and needs to return to the island ASAP. Not much else I know.”
“I understand you two are friends,” McClendon said, his face expressionless.
“Yes, sir. We go back quite a while.”
“Well, here’s the rundown . . . at least from the Air Force’s perspective. Apparently, two weeks ago, your pal snuck over to Cambodia, which is off-limits to American military personnel. He went to a casino there, lost a lot of money. Used his government travel card to pay off part of his debt. Of course, it got flagged back on Okinawa, and they want him sent back home ASAP. Yesterday, he was attacked at our old hotel. He says the two events are unrelated, but I’m not sure. Regardless, because of the attack on our personnel, we changed hotels. This one is a little more secure.”
Jason eyed his surroundings. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah. So, here’s the deal: you’ll see Captain Harris around the hotel between now and when your plane gets fixed. I’m ordering no contact between the two of you.”
“What?” Jason exclaimed.
“You heard me. No contact. Captain Harris is under house arrest. He can’t leave the hotel and is to socialize with no one. I don’t have the manpower to post a guard on him all day, so I’m relying on his word as an officer—and now yours—that he’ll do the right thing.”
Jason and Ben were friends for a long time. In fact, Jason owed his pilot career to Ben. When the two were AFROTC cadets at LSU, Ben saved his ass one night, and he was forever grateful.
He tried to grasp why McClendon would say this. It made no sense. Ben was not going to run away, so why did it matter? Then it hit him.
“This is just harassment, isn’t it?” Jason said.
McClendon leaned back, looking stunned that the young captain would ask such a question.
“What else could be the reason to create such a . . . rule. This is your way of harassing Be—Captain Harris. I don’t understand, sir. If he was attacked at the last hotel, does it make sense to isolate him here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to not let him go anywhere alone? That way, someone always knows where he is?”
McClendon’s face turned red, and his teeth clenched.
“Captain, I’ll decide what makes sense. I’ve got too much to worry about with our mission than to babysit some damn criminal.”
"From what you described, sir, it doesn't sound like he's a criminal. Sounds like he's guilty of bad judgment."
"Captain, I've read your file. I believe you are well-versed in bad judgment." That was a cheap shot. Where did that come from? It appeared as if McClendon were going to say more but held his tongue. "You're dismissed."
Jason stood and marched out of the hotel suite to the elevator. It was one of the stupidest orders he had ever received. And he was right, it was pure harassment. Ben had pissed off the old man, and this was his way of getting back at him. Stupid. He was not sure if he crossed the line or not, but he was sure of one thing: he needed to talk to Ben.
7
October 11, 2003
Maison Andrepont picked up the small box on the seat next to him and eyed it wantonly. Ten inches long and covered in black leather, it was heavy for its size. He rocked back and forth while they bounced along the pitted asphalt road. The hulking, dusty Land Rover raced through the front gate of the compound, twelve-foot walls encompassing the twenty-acre property. Armed guards waved casually from the watchtowers when they passed. The Land Rover joined the illuminated driveway, circling around a marble-based water fountain in front of the grand entrance to the mansion.
Travel from the Don Mueang International Airport in Bangkok was quicker this time of night. He hated flying there because the runway had developed cracks and resulted in some interesting landings. Plus, it forced him to battle Thai customs officials twice within a few hours. The airport in Bangkok was necessary, however, because the ride to the Phnom Penh airport from his home was a long one. Too long for his tight schedule.
He stepped from the luxury, armor-retrofitted, SUV and marched into the foyer of the twelve-thousand-square-foot mansion in southwest Cambodia, his left hand firmly gripping a leather box. Pausing at the hand-carved, full-length gold-leaf-framed mirror near the front door, he checked his hair. His gaze shifted across the marble floor, toward the staircase that curved its way upstairs. Where is she? Fresh flowers in a variety of colors sat perched in antique vases. They, and the five-foot-diameter, multi-layered chandelier hanging majestically overhead, made the foyer pop.
He opened the sliding doors to the living room. A beautiful blonde holding a drink met him inside while a team of servants raced outside to retrieve his bags. One of his guards stood behind her. Too close, he noticed.
“Maison,” she said, handing him the drink. “Welcome home.”
“You normally meet me at the door.” She didn’t respond, and he didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hungrily. Pulling back, he stared into her bright green eyes and grinned.
“Did you miss me?”
"No." She pushed away sheepishly. "I found things to do while you were playing in Singapore." She ambled toward the living room; he followed at a distance. The red silk Qipao dress she wore clung to he
r body. Embroidered with azaleas, it was custom fit, from the higher-than-normal slit along the sides to the collar highlighting her lengthy neckline. His eyes traced the elegant contour of her legs from her ankles all the way to her mid-thigh, where the edge of her dress ended. He smiled.
“I wouldn’t say I was playing, my dear Helena. There was much work accomplished. The final shipment of containers will arrive tomorrow. Nimol will move them to the warehouse in Bangkok. The coordination is complete.”
He cozied up to her as she poured a glass of Chardonnay at the long marble slab. Both of his arms reached around her and grabbed the bar. Maison placed the ten-inch long box on the bar top in front of her.
“I was thinking of you.” He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled it to his face, and breathed in the scent of her golden locks.
Helena said nothing, her face stoic, as she opened the lid to the box. He glanced over her shoulder at the glistening pearl necklace.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Helena said flatly. “It’s beautiful.”
“You are disappointed?”
“It doesn’t go with this dress.”
What? This is where she was supposed to shriek with joy. Every time he took a trip without her, he brought her a gift. She was always grateful. Yet this thirty-thousand-dollar necklace didn’t faze her.
Maison gulped down his Seagram and Seven, crunching a small ice cube in his teeth. “I can fix that.” He grabbed her hips and pulled her to him.
“Is this all I am to you?”
He kissed her neck. “Helena, my dear, I cherish the ground you walk on. How else can I express my love for you while I am gone?”
“You could try communication.”
“My dear, I call you daily.”
“You call but never to talk about us. Only business. And you didn’t call this time. Not once.”
“I thought you wanted a bigger role in my affairs?”
“I do, but it seems I’m supposed to have either one role or the other. I thought I was your partner.”
The Quiet Professional Page 4