“Did she tell you we’re getting divorced?”
That was a surprise, although it shouldn’t have been. “No, she didn’t mention it.”
“What can I say? I got tired of hearing about her spending her weekends in the enlisted dorm. Don’t tell me you don’t know about that.”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
“Rumors, my ass. I followed her. More than once. The stories are all true.”
“You followed her?”
“Yeah, when we first moved to Okinawa. Two years before you showed up. She wasted no time in figuring out an officer’s wife at the enlisted club was a hot commodity. I guess she loved the attention.”
“So . . . why wait so long?”
Ben hesitated. “I’m not sure. I stayed TDY as much as I could. Didn’t want to face her.” A sly grin crept over his face. “But this kind of worked out nice, didn’t it? She’s leaving the island next week, we’re broke, and she has no access to any credit cards or cash.”
“Convenient.”
“Yeah, isn’t it? You can’t make a shit sandwich taste better, but you can dress it up.”
Jason didn't feel sorry for Ben's wife. Although he had forgiven her for what she did years ago, he never forgot. Her actions displayed her character. How Ben dealt with it was his business. It seemed like she would get what she deserves in this case. It remained to be seen, however, what Ben would get. Military justice or street justice from the casino owner's thugs.
12
October 12, 2003
Nimol stroked his thin mustache and nodded to Ponleak. The two Cambodians entered the lobby and headed for the registration desk. Sarathoon gave them the location of the hotel and a description of Ben Harris. Approaching the desk clerk, they slid one of Maison Andrepont's cards across the desk, along with four thousand Baht. They needed information on Ben Harris, and they got it. The girl provided his room number, then did even better. "He is at the pool."
The two men thanked her and hustled through the lobby to the pool deck.
“Should we grab him and go?”
“No.” Nimol rubbed the scar that plunged into his hairline with his fingertip. “There are Americans everywhere. We must be patient and quiet. Sarathoon was explicit in his instructions. These are Special Forces men and are well-trained. We don’t want to raise suspicion.”
Once outside, Nimol surveyed his surroundings, searching for their man. The deck was crowded with too many Caucasians scattered around. The two meandered around the pool, scanning the faces of the hotel guests.
Ben peered over the top of his sunglasses and looked at Jason. Disappointed in his friend, he was glad he came, nevertheless. When Ben’s wife revealed how she had covered for Jason’s ex-wife’s infidelity, he realized this bridge could not be rebuilt. If Ben knew Jason Conrad like he thought he did, he was now an outsider—but an outsider with a history.
Pulling off his sunglasses, Ben wiped the perspiration from his face with a towel.
“When’s the divorce go through?’ Jason asked.
Ben set his sunglasses back on the tip of his nose, his eyes peering over the top. “As soon as she returns to the States. They packed up her household goods last week. We’ve got some final paperwork to sign with the JAG and MPF. We found it easier to send her back to the States if we were technically still married.”
“You seem . . . at peace with this.”
“Man, I accepted this situation three years ago,” Ben grumbled. “She is bad news. Why do you think I tried to go TDY every chance I could? Especially here.” His arm gestured from left to right, like displaying something on The Price Is Right. “Come to Thailand and live like a king. After the baht collapsed a few years back, the dollar goes a long way.”
Jason sat expressionlessly. Ben did not know if he won him over or not. It will come, he thought, just give him time.
“I need to make a phone call,” Ben said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. You sticking around?”
Glancing at his watch, Jason nodded. “I have ten minutes before my crew meeting.”
Ben stood and walked to the bar at the end of the pool deck.
“Telephone?”
The bartender reached below and pulled out a cordless phone. After handing it to him, he moved to the other side to help two other men. Ben dialed the number and glanced back to where Jason still sat on the lounger. The phone answered on the third ring.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice said.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“You’re back in Okinawa?”
“No, there’s been some . . . complications. In the meantime, I think I have a way to remove my name from the hit list.”
Nimol asked the bartender if any charges were made by Ben Harris. After sliding him three hundred baht, he searched his tickets and said yes. He identified the waitress who took the order and went back to mixing his drinks. Nimol and Ponleak cornered the overweight waitress and gave her a hundred baht.
“Which one of these farongs is Ben Harris?” Nimol said.
The girl scanned the pool deck, searching the guests. She spotted the tall American sitting upright in a chair, alone.
“There,” she pointed across the water. “He’s in the light-yellow button shirt with long pants.”
Nimol found him immediately.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Is that all?”
Nimol nodded without saying anything. He tapped Ponleak, and the two moved to the other side of the deck.
Ben walked back to his lounge chair. Jason stood as he arrived.
“I have to meet my crew.”
“Glad we had this little chat.”
“We’ll talk more. Only McClendon can’t find out.”
“Fair enough. There is something I want to speak with you about,” Ben said, his voice serious. “I need a favor.”
Jason’s eyes drilled holes through him. That’s just like him. Always trying to figure things out.
“Let me make sure my guys are squared away, and we’ll talk tonight.”
“What do they need to do?”
“We’re a crew, Ben. Everybody has responsibilities both on and off the airplane.”
Ben chuckled lightly as he stared him in the eye. “You’re too trusting of people, Jason.”
13
October 12, 2003
The flight from Bangkok was short, and the 737-200 landed firmly at Narathiwat Airport in Southern Thailand, making all the passengers aware they reached the ground. Arthit clutched his backpack while he exited the jet. One of his men met him outside the terminal, and the two climbed into a battered Toyota truck, driving out of the city.
His journey had been painful but profitable. He hated dealing with the Frenchman, but one thing was for sure: the Frenchman possessed vision. Maison Andrepont understood how to exploit world events. And he knew how to manipulate people, himself included. The Frenchman hired Arthit a year ago to organize a ragtag collection of separatists into a cohesive fighting force. They settled on the Narathiwat Province, nestled next to the Malaysian border, Arthit proceeded to recruit a few key Islamic Thais for his team.
Historically, the separatists in the south acted more like petty criminals, using the drug trade to fund their political objectives, which until recently, went mostly ignored. After the 9/11 attacks in America, the various separatist groups garnered more attention from both the Thai government and the Americans at JUSMAGTHAI.
Arthit decided, rather than procure soldiers from an existing organization, he would build his own. He chose to use the name and reputation of the Islamic Front for the Liberation of Pattani, otherwise known as the BIPP. The BIPP had the distinction of being the first organized armed resistance group, its origin going back to 1947 and a local revolt. Back then, they were the BNPP, the National Liberation Front of Pattani, the new name emerging in 1986 with a change in ideology. They had been very active in the ‘70s and ‘80s, but until their current resurrection, had been all but non-existent.
/>
It had been a stroke of brilliance resurrecting the BIPP. His "group" had immediate credibility, and when the first two men joined, they thought they belonged to a part of a larger collective. The first two led to more, and so on. Arthit now had a team of thirty-five insurgents in his jungle camp. The Frenchman provided him funding to arm, train, and feed his men, but they still had not been informed of their mission. Arthit was not a devout Muslim, unlike his men in the BIPP. They were motivated by theology, and America's stalemate in Afghanistan and entry into Iraq encouraged them to train harder, pray even more, and urge their leader to send them into the fight.
The Toyota bounced along the dirt road leading into the jungle surrounding the city. His driver took several turns on ‘not so visible’ roads. If you did not memorize the trail through the dense vegetation, there was no way you could follow the written directions to their camp. Arthit squinted, the sun piercing through the trees. After forty minutes on sparse trails in the jungle, the Toyota entered a clearing where a small tent-city stood, complete with Vietnam War-era camo nets posted overhead.
When he pulled into the camp, the Adhan—the Islamic call to worship—played over the loudspeaker. Arthit watched two dozen of his men pull out their prayer rugs and face Mecca. He and his driver did the same. It was second nature to him now. Islam, as practiced in Thailand, had become laced with many beliefs and activities not associated with Islam. Various cultural aspects filtered into the practice of Islam, which had made it easier for Arthit to perpetuate his ruse.
The call to worship ended, and Arthit moved briskly to his tent. One of his men followed him and set his suitcases at the entrance. The damp soil stained the bottom of his tattered bags, and Arthit gave quiet thanks he would only be living like this a few more weeks. After this job, he would live in Poipet, in a hotel near one of the casinos. Then a few months later, he planned to buy a flat in Bangkok. He loved the fact that these men operated strictly on ideology. That meant they were inspired, hungry, and determined—and they didn’t want money.
Jason headed for The Huntsman, a British pub in the basement of the hotel. When he walked inside, he found his crew sitting at a table near the bar. The first thing he noticed was Jimmy. His co-pilot’s bloodshot eyes barely stayed open, his hair was disheveled, and he reeked of alcohol. Jason glared at Lon.
“Mekong?”
“Of course, sir,” Lon said. “It’s every lieutenant’s rite of passage to be introduced to Mekong on their first TDY to Thailand.”
“Was it at least good stuff?” Jason asked, knowing that manufacturing whiskey in Thailand is not regulated like it is in the West.
“You never know with Mekong, sir.”
Jason nodded. You could drink a bottle of the stuff and not feel much at all, or you could drink one glass of Mekong and Coke and get knocked on your ass. Jimmy appeared to have gotten knocked on his ass. Several times.
“Anybody get in trouble last night?” Jason glimpsed at Lacey without realizing it. She was the only female member on his crew.
“Don’t look at me,” Lacey said. “I took a hot shower and went to bed. Alone.”
“Nah,” Martinez said, not paying attention to Lacey. “We took the co to Soi Cowboy and let him . . . window shop. Seems like that was something he’d never seen before.”
“Yeah,” Chris added. “The co-pilot developed a love for Bangkok, and he hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours yet.”
“Fug y-you, nav,” Jimmy mumbled. He sat slumped in his chair, his head hanging down.
Everyone laughed, except Thomas. “Jason, this is bullshit. Why do we have the crew meetings at 1100?”
“Well, besides the fact that I said so, I want to make sure you guys realize we still hold a level of responsibility here. I want you guys to go out and have fun, but I don’t want everyone coming in looking like Lieutenant Dingleberry here,” he said, motioning his thumb at Jimmy.
“Well, I say we change it to 1300. Two hours would make a big difference.”
“I think it would screw over everyone’s day. If you want to go somewhere, it limits what you can do.”
“You can’t decide what we can and can’t do, Jason. We’re not on the damn airplane, and I’m the same rank as you.”
Jason’s fists clenched. Man, I would like to punch out this putz. Thomas had been a pain in his ass ever since Jason showed up on Okinawa as a co-pilot. Once he became an aircraft commander, Thomas seemed to up the ante. Taking a deep breath, Jason turned to the rest of the crew.
“What’s everyone doing today?”
Martinez spoke up. “Lon and I planned to take the crew down to Venus. I want to pick up a necklace for my wife, and Lon needs to buy something.” Venus Jewelry was the popular stop for special ops crews from Kadena.
“Is everyone going?” Jason said.
“I think so. You gonna go Captain Thomas?” Martinez said.
“Uh, no. No. I’ve got plans.”
“Plans?” Chris howled. “Who the hell has ‘plans’ in Bangkok less than twenty-four hours after getting here? What kind of frickin’ plans do you have?”
“None of your damn business. I don’t want to go to Venus. I’m gonna stay around here.”
Jason forced himself to talk to Thomas once again. "Everyone else is going to Venus. If you don't go with them, you can't leave the hotel."
“Bullshit! I can leave whenever I want.”
"Sure, you can as long as you've got a buddy. And by buddy, I mean one of us." Thomas started to respond, but Jason cut him off. "That's not my rule, that's Mike Charlie's. If you don't like it, we can go talk to him." Mike Charlie was the phonetic name for mission commander. The last thing the mission commander needed was petty squabbling among crewmembers.
Jason studied everyone’s faces. “Anybody got any questions?”
They all shook their heads “no,” except for Jimmy, who could not lift his head, and Thomas, who stared at the floor with his arms across his chest.
“All right,” Jason said. “I’ll see you all tomorrow morning at 1100 hours. And keep the lieutenant away from the Mekong.”
The Jakal crew stood to leave the pub, sliding their stools underneath the table. Jason tapped Chris on the arm, letting him know he wanted him to stick around.
“What’s up with Thomas,” Jason asked.
“He’s a douche bag,” Chris replied. “I’m embarrassed to refer to him as a fellow nav. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he’s been acting weird ever since we were pegged to go on this trip. Wouldn’t help with the dip clearances, flight plans, or shit. Totally worthless.”
Jason rested his hands on his hips. “Do me a favor and keep an eye on him. His behavior is—”
“Like a douche bag. He’s pissin’ me off. But I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll talk to him, too. That was a bullshit move, talking to you like that in front of the E’s.”
“Thanks, Chris.”
“So, what do you have going on today?”
“I’m meeting with McClendon in a couple of hours to go over our options for getting the plane fixed. He’s still giving us a long leash to enjoy ourselves while we’re here.”
“Good. Well, I noticed you this morning, talking to your buddy Harris by the pool.”
Jason dropped his chin to his chest. He suspected where this was going.
“I know the boss said to stay away from this guy. If I saw you, odds are someone else did, too. I realize you’re friends with that asshole, but I’m telling you—watch your back. You’re heading down a slippery slope violating a direct order.”
Jason sighed. Chris was right. But he still needed to find out what Ben wanted to talk to him about.
14
October 12, 2003
Preeda Suttirat wiggled in the chair at the table, eating sticky rice, and watching her mother sing and dance around the tiny kitchen as she cleaned. The kitchen sat in the back of the small house, which was attached to her father’s jewelry store. Both her mother and father worked
at the store, and she did too. Or at least she felt like she did. She always wandered around the showroom, smiling at customers. They always smiled back.
Preeda loved her mother deeply, and she became scared when her parents yelled like they did earlier. She wasn’t sure why they yelled at each other—she only knew it scared her. Now her mother made everything better with sticky rice and a song.
Her mother's voice reverberated throughout the room. Preeda didn't know how to describe the experience, although it was beautiful. She couldn't even understand the words. It did not matter because they tickled her heart, a soft and soothing different language. It was lovely, it was confusing, it was . . . Mother.
The large wok almost didn’t fit in the sink, but enough did so she could clean its surface. Lawan Suttirat smiled at her daughter, Preeda, sitting in her chair, pieces of sticky rice stuck to her face. She pranced around joyfully, singing her favorite song by Celine Dion, My Heart Will Go On, from the movie, Titanic. The melody resonated with her at a visceral level. Although her English was broken at best, she learned it so well that when she sang, she sounded exactly like Celine Dion.
Lawan stopped singing professionally long ago. Every time she thought about her former career, her heart sank. She tried not to think about it, so she wouldn't cry in front of Preeda. Lawan had a fight thirty minutes ago with her husband, Deng. She dreaded when he would slip back from the store, their previous argument far from over. Lawan handed a half-filled glass of green tea to Preeda, and the feisty five-year-old gulped the refreshing drink down as quickly as possible.
She smiled and leaned down to hug her daughter, who squeezed her mother lovingly.
“Don’t stop,” she begged. Lawan wrapped her arms around the child, then happily continued to sing. Her skin tingled when she saw the sparkle in the little girl’s eyes. A smile revealed two missing front teeth at the top of her mouth. The charming face gave her an innocence Lawan could not resist. She brushed the hair from Preeda’s eyes as she sang to her audience of one.
The Quiet Professional Page 7