The Cover of War (20 page)

42

T
o gain closure, and some kind of understanding, Chaske needed to
stand where Danny had died.

Grief packed his
chest like sludge. He stared into the building's charred shell, unable to believe
that his brother was gone.

Chaske was tired
of Special Operations; he was tired of war. He wanted to quit. He wanted to
explore the Native American roots that he had been so ignorant of. He wanted to
discover his spiritual side. He wanted to stop killing.

He looked
around. Locals had put bunches of chrysanthemums and smoldering sticks of
incense around the building, for several Vietnamese children had also died in
the blaze. Chaske let the spirals of incense smoke mesmerize him; if he hadn't
gotten Danny out of that
Bangkok
jail, his brother would still be alive. He held back the rush of
guilt and wondered if Danny could see him from the sprit world. Chaske often
wondered what happened to the souls' of the dead. He wondered what the sprit
world really was. If such a place even existed; or if the notion was merely an
irrational belief, handed down from generation to generation.

He cleared his
mind and tried to search within for signs of Danny.

Something felt
wrong.

When his father
had died, Chaske had been able to sense the loss; to
feel
that his
father's sprit had left the earthly plane. With Danny, he felt nothing.

Chaske felt eyes
on his back. He turned and instantly recognized the woman.

Laos
, he thought.
I saved your life.

Chaske's hand
went inside his shirt, gripping the hilt of his sidearm. 'You're Viet Cong. What-'

'I knew you
would come here.' Her voice was strong and sensual. 'Danny isn't dead. We need
to talk.'

* * *

Chaske didn't know what to think.

What does she
mean he isn't dead?

He was sitting
in Cam's third-floor living room, looking over the dockyards to the Saigon
River, sipping a hot, seaweed tasting brew, shocked to learn that Danny had
been seeing Cam's younger sister, Amai; the other girl.

Laos
.

He wondered how
many thousands of times
Cam
and
Amai had entered his mind. He realized that he had hunched forward, and he
pulled his shoulders back. She held his gaze. Her eyes showed strength, but
behind them lay a deep sadness.

As he had six
years ago in the Laotian jungle, he felt a strong attraction to her.

She's Viet
Cong,
he thought.
What's her motivation?

He sipped his
tea. A ship's foghorn blew. She smiled and he thought she was beautiful.

Chaske said:
'How did you see me?'

She lifted a
delicate eyebrow.

'
Laos
. You knew I was there - How?'

Her eyes
sparkled for a second. 'I saw your aura.'

'My what?'

'Your aura,
Chaske. Visible light from your sprit energy. It surrounds your body.' She
contoured his outline with her hands. 'Your aura's color betrays your
emotions.'

He didn't know
what to think.

She smiled
again.

Besides
attraction, he felt a power in her presence. The only other person he had felt
this from was his father. 'Tell me,' he said: 'Why do you think Danny's alive?'

'I feel him in
my mind. I see him in my visions. He is powerfully connected to Amai . . . They
have her too.'

'You mean you
haven't actually
seen
him?'

'I see with my
mind, Chaske.'

Frustration
struck him.
She's a crack-pot.
He got up.
Do I arrest her?

But as he rose,
a feeling hit him; a feeling he had not felt since the day of his father's
death; a feeling that he was missing something of vital importance.

Is my
father's sprit trying to guide me?
He thought.
Is Danny really alive?
He shook his head.
No!

Cam
put a hand on his shoulder. 'Don't go,' she said. 'You don't
understand.'

He sat back
down. 'You're Viet Cong. I can't trust you.'

'I'm not Viet
Cong-

'
Laos
. You were with a North Vietnamese
commando unit-'

'I
was
a
psychic-operative during the French War. I learned enemy intentions through
psychic meditation.'

Impossible,
he thought
.

She leaned back.
'Westerners are centuries behind. Here it is common to acknowledge psychic
ability.'

Chaske doubted
her, but something in what she said resonated with him. His father had often
said similar things. 'But that doesn't answer my-'

'I have no
loyalty to the Viet Cong. They have my sister.'

Chaske knew she
wasn't lying. 'You say you've had visions - of Amai and Danny?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me about
them.'

'A man called
Triet has them. He will torture them to death.'

'Where?'

She shook her
head. 'It's hard to see. They're in the dark. I feel distance. Hundreds of
miles maybe.'

Chaske shifted
his weight.

She said: 'You
must help me get them back.'

'I can't see
how-'

'He's your
brother.'

Chaske
straightened. 'You don't know where they are. You haven't even
seen
them.'

Her eyes melted
into soft brown globes.

Chaske knew
Cam
believed in what she was saying. He
wanted to believe that Danny was alive too. He wanted it more than anything.
But it was a false hope, conjured by a crazy woman.

She looked him
in the eye. 'Tuule is dead.'

The name hit
Chaske physically.
How could she know?

After the GSID
mission in
Laos
, Chaske had
been sent into
Vietnam
- deep
into the jungle. His reward for blowing cover had been to train Montagnard
tribesmen in the arts of ambush and surveillance. The tribe's leader was named
Tuule.

'He died of a
terrible sickness.'
Cam
frowned. 'His son Buule is their leader now.'

Chaske felt
lightheaded.
She can't possibly know these people.

Tuule's was an
isolated jungle tribe that never made contact with the outside world - ever.
While Chaske was training them, Tuule
had
fallen ill. Chaske was no
doctor, but Tuule's symptoms suggested advanced bowel cancer. Three years ago,
when Chaske had left the tribe and returned to the CIA's Special Activities
Division, Tuule had been alive. But what really shocked Chaske was the fact
that Tuule's eldest son
was
named Buule, as
Cam
suggested, and would've been the obvious successor to leadership.

Chaske felt his
eyes widen. 'How do you know this?'

'I told you,
Chaske. I see things.'

The nape of his
neck prickled.

After testing
Cam
extensively, Chaske felt a surge of
hope.

Maybe she is
psychic?
He thought.
No, it's impossible . . .
But she's proven she can do it - hasn't she?

'Amai and
Danny,' he said, shaking his head. Give me their exact location?' 

'I see flashes
of them in my mind: tied to a lorry; blind folded; I feel their fear.' She
looked up. '
Laos
.'

Despite
Cam
proving her ability, Chaske just
couldn't bring himself to believe in her.

'
Laos
,' he said. 'How can you be sure?'

'I've been there
before. After the incident with you, we went to a secret base. I think that's
where they are.'

Chaske rubbed
his eyes. 'If I told my superiors that a Vietnamese psychic thinks Danny is alive,
and imprisoned somewhere in
Laos-
' His hand swept his hair in frustration.

'But you know
I'm right.'

'
Laos
is massive-' He shook his head again.

She smiled with
her eyes. 'We will find them.'

Chaske put both
hands on his head. 'How am I meant to work with that?'

'Trust your
instinct, Chaske. You'll know what to do.'

Chaske felt
trapped between conflicting beliefs, but he couldn't bear the thought that
Danny and Amai might be out there somewhere, prisoners' of the Viet Cong,
facing torture and death. In his heart-of-hearts, Chaske knew that he was going
after them, and that
Cam
was
the key.

43

B
lows thudded into Danny's torso.

With his arms
and feet tied, he could not defend himself.

Danny couldn't
understand why any of this was happening.
Why?
He thought.
Why me?

Triet spoke and
the two men stopped punching. They dragged him through the wet leaf-litter to a
small, square hole in the ground, and Danny realized that his worst nightmare
would come true.

His body went
stiff and he screamed: 'I can't go in there.'

Triet's men
forced him feet first into the hole. His shoulders jammed and the men pushed
him through. He fell for a second, and then landed on his backside. A wedge of
sunlight angled in through the trapdoor, revealing the first few feet of the
subterranean rat-hole, barely four feet high, and less than three feet wide.
His eyes took in the alien space and his heart raced.

Stay calm,
he thought.
Just stay calm.

Triet dropped
through the opening followed by his two men. The bodies jammed between Danny
and the exit triggered a surge of panic, and he shut his eyes to control the
fear.

Triet's men
untied his feet, and then kicked him forward, forcing him down the tunnel.
Danny's back scraped along the roof. He opened his eyes. Ahead of him, Triet
held a lantern, which painted a few feet of the tunnel's flat floor and arched
roof with a dull glow. The other two were behind Danny, shoving him forward.

The air in the
tunnel was hot, thick, and hard to inhale.
If they can breathe,
he
thought.
I can breathe.

The tunnel
descended steadily, and after a few minutes, they rounded a hairpin-bend, which
took them deeper into the earth.

Why me?
Danny thought.
Why the hell am I here?
  

After three more
hairpins they stopped and small wooden door appeared in the lantern-light.
Triet pulled a hanging cord and a single electric bulb came on. Danny was
surprised that they had electricity down here.

Triet handed the
lantern to one of his men, and then he slid back the locking-bolt, and pulled
open the door. Danny only had seconds to view the tiny hole before he was
shoved inside. The door sealed behind him with a rush of heavy air.

Danny panicked:
the space was too small. He felt like he was buried alive. He could feel every
ton of earth that lay between him and the surface.

I can't
breathe
, he thought.
I'll suffocate.

Danny slammed
his feet into the door. His face hit the ceiling. His arms hit the walls. He
writhed in panic. He kicked and thrashed and slammed his head into the roof
innumerable times in an uncontrollable fit of terror.

* * *

From her cell, Amai heard the activity in
the main tunnel.

She twisted
around and pressed her ear to the door, but the heavy timber only distorted the
voices into low mumblings.

Then she heard
bodies outside
her
door, and the lock-bolt grated back. She backed away.
The door opened and she saw Triet's face in the lantern-light; he looked
demonic.

He smirked. 'You
have a new neighbor.'

Her stomach
clenched. 'Danny?'

Triet laughed.
'How long do you think he will last?'

Then his boot
hit her in the mouth and she tasted dirt and blood.

Her door slammed
shut. The bolt locked. The bodies moved away.

Oh no,
she thought.
Danny.

44

Tanthuan Shipyards

Saigon

10°45'50.21"N
106°42'36.72"E

W
earing a faded Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap, jeans, and a tee
shirt, Chaske walked cautiously along the waterfront.

He felt nervous
because he was meeting someone he did not trust - a CIA shadow-man named Jim
Hurley.

Chaske found the
ship and checked the number. The two-hundred foot freighter rocked sluggishly
beside the quay. One of her engines chugged at idle, scenting the air with
burnt fuel-oil, and heavy mooring lines, ringed with rat-disks, rose to an
apparently dormant main deck.

Chaske stopped
and took a breath. He had made his decision: alive or not, he was going after
Danny and Amai.

The pier groaned
under the weight of the incoming tide. Chaske scanned the freighter's deck, his
eyes stopping on the superstructure. On a gangway between two funnels, a face
watched him.

A sentry
.

Chaske needed to
stay alert; dealing with Jim Hurley was dangerous, as one never knew what
sinister cargo or people he was moving, but questions about the rescue hijacked
Chaske's concentration.

A man doesn't
simply stroll into
Laos
,
he thought.

Cam
's ballpark location was four-hundred miles away. That was why he
was meeting Jim Hurley. Chaske needed a chopper; and he needed it kept
hush-hush.

He looked back
to the gangway. A gun-barrel had replaced the face. Chaske swallowed his
concern; this level of security was normal for Jim Hurley.

Chaske's mind
turned to his team. He didn't want Golota involved, but Blue the Australian
would be perfect. The unit had just begun a one-week leave rotation. Even if
Blue did agree to follow him into
Laos
on an illegal mission, a few days would be all they had.

Chaske felt
twinge of fear.
What if Blue won't come?

The Australian
was his best operator. The red-headed welterweight was as tough-as-nails, and
undoubtedly possessed the highest power-to-weight ratio of any living human.
Blue was a pit-bull with a heart of gold; but aside from strength and courage,
Blue was Chaske's friend. In the ring, Chaske had watched Blue beat bigger
fighters with technique, more skilled fighters with determination, and expert
fighters with luck. But in the 'J' Blue
was
the best - no one came
close.

As instructed,
Chaske stopped short of the freighter's gangplank and turned his cap backwards.

Despite having
nothing to work with other than
Cam
's '
visions
', Chaske had mentally constructed a basic plan
for the rescue: he would limit the team to himself,
Cam
, Blue, and the pilot.

But Chaske could
already see problems.

Am I crazy?
He thought.

Chaske could not
use a Military pilot; that left only one option - Civil Air Transport.
Anything, Anywhere, Anytime, was Jim Hurley's motto; and he meant it.

Jim was an old
CAT contact that Chaske had used before in this part of the world; albeit on
sanctioned operations.

The CIA silently
owned CAT. The cover company had been operating in
South
East Asia
for years. With their large fleet of
aircraft, CAT performed insertion and extraction for The CIA, Special-Forces,
spies, and sabotage teams in any and all conditions. They would fly people,
food, weapons, and drugs, no-questions-asked, into virtually any environment.
But their service came at a price. Chaske was under no illusion; the rescue
would cost him every cent he had. During his time in covert operations, Chaske
had never dipped into his bank account. He was so often in remote locations
that he seldom got the chance. As a result he was incubating a sizeable
nest-egg. The chopper's cost wouldn't bother him, but if he abandoned Danny and
Amai to the Viet Cong, to suffer cruelty and torture for God-knows how many
years, he would not be able to live with himself.

A fat-gutted
seaman with heavily tattooed forearms appeared at the head of the gangplank.
The seaman scanned the wharf, and then signaled for Chaske to follow him. They
entered the superstructure through a steel hatch, climbed several flights of
steep metal steps, and emerged on the bridge.

Jim Hurley was
sitting at the wheel chewing gum. 'Hello Chaske,' he said. 'Still enjoying
Vietnam
?'

'Don't mean to
be rude Jim, but I'm pressed for time.'

'How can I be of
service, my friend?' 

'I need an OH-6,
with pilot, armed with rockets and an M-60.'

'Cayuse, eh.'
Jim chewed and nodded and then eyeballed him. 'We talkin' operational or
private use here?'

He's as
cunning as a rat,
Chaske thought. He decided not to
lie. 'Private.'

Jim looked
suspicious. 'Okay Chaske. I know you. You're a good guy.' He spat his gum into
a steel waste bin. 'I got two flight ready OH-6 Alfas. Twenty-five-grand to
charter machine and pilot.'

'Great-'

'But I ain't got
a pilot available for three weeks.'

Chaske's gut
dropped.

Jim showed his
palms. 'My two best were greased over
Laos
two days ago. Two others just packed up and went home. Christ I pay
em four-times what they get anywhere else.' Jim shook his head. 'All the rest
are logged on missions. Nature of the business, my friend.'

Chaske felt ill.
'I need it tomorrow, Jim.'

Jim thumbed the
stubble under his chin. 'I could rent you the machine -
Only
if you got
a suitable pilot.'

Chaske nodded.
'I'll get one.'

Jim rubbed his
hands together. 'Who?'

'I'll get one.'

'Mmm . . . Price
goes up.'

'How much?'

'Fifty.'

Chaske's head
snapped back. '
Thou-
sand?'

Jim locked his
hands behind his head. 'Take it or leave it, pal.'

Chaske felt like
he had been kicked in the balls. He didn't know what it cost to ship a new OH-6
to
Saigon
, but it had to be
less than twenty-five-thousand dollars.

Chaske knew he
was being played.

'Well?' Jim
said. 'I ain't got all day.'

'Okay, Jim. Deal.'

Jim smirked and
they shook hands.

'Zero-five-thirty,'
Jim said. 'LZ40 at Tan Son Nhut. Bring the cash in a Military issue cram-sack.'

Chaske left the
ship, racking his brain for a pilot who would fly an illegal mission into
Laos
at such short notice. He could think
of only one: John Golota.

Hell,
he thought.
It's already going wrong.