CHINA THORN IN MY FLESH
Jay Clayton Wilson
Published by Jay Clayton Wilson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Jay Clayton Wilson
Discover three other books in this JASON HARTE SERIES by the author at smashwords.com
Discover other books by the author at smashwords.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
CHINA THORNS IN MY FLESH
CHAPTER 1
A face rose out of taupe waters in the dawn mist, hidden behind a log that floated near the reeds on the Burma side of the Mekong River. The log could have been seen from the jungles of Laos just across the river. But it was lost among the flotsam.
One hundred yards up stream the noise of a marine diesel engine signaled that it had come to life. The riverboat it powered was about to depart from the docks of the Burmese Timber Corporation into the waters of the Mekong - water that laboriously carried the dross of China's mountains, from only a few miles upstream.
The vessel, fully loaded with freshly cut timber, maneuvered toward midstream. It had not yet gained much speed. An armed crewman rode on the bow, confident that nothing could happen so close to home. The crewman did not see the man slip beneath the surface of the silt-laden waters and swim to the bow of the oncoming riverboat. Quickly, the magnetic base of a dynamite charge was attached to the steel skin just beneath the vessel's water line. A switch was pulled. It ignited an underwater fuse. Smoke and bubbles spewed to the surface while the man swam back to shore.
A few moments later a roaring explosion tore a gigantic hole in the bow beneath the water line. Lengths of timber were ripped from the chains that secured them. Splinters and smoke erupted. The armed crewman simply disappeared. Water flooded through the rupture. The boat sank immediately with its valuable cargo otherwise intact.
An emergency siren on the dock began its shrill, electronic scream. The forlorn echo reached into the vast forest from which the timber had been cut.
Emergencies were common enough in forestry operations, particularly around sawmills. British Timber Corporation employees had memorized the officially prescribed procedures. They dropped what they were doing and rushed to their assigned posts. Denuded logs stopped on the conveyers before reaching the rapacious teeth that turned forests into profits for the Englishmen who owned BTC. Saw blades began to sing in a lower key as their spin slowed.
The two kitchen cooks stayed at their bubbling caldrons, knowing that, in the midst of a conflagration, food would be essential to the men who confronted whatever catastrophe had occurred. But staying in the kitchen cost them their lives.
Fifteen shaggy, unshaven men wearing torn clothing, odorous from living in the jungles of Burma, crashed into the kitchen. Aghast cooks backed away from the men who were armed with knives, rusty pistols, and old bolt action rifles. One bandit carried only a club.
Most of the mob began gathering fresh food into burlap bags. The others slaughtered the cooks and looted all of the canned goods they could carry.
Covered by the diversionary explosion, five more bandits had burst into an office and trashed it in search of money or weapons. There were none. So they left it in shambles.
As quickly as the gang had entered, stolen, killed and destroyed, they left to vanish into the forest that was their home, there to survive on the spoils of the raid and lurk for their next victims.
The band was about thirty strong, sometimes larger, sometimes smaller, depending on how many of them had been killed in recent actions. Replacements were plentiful. The wars in Vietnam and through out Southeast Asia had caused so much displacement from that hungry, homeless men regularly sunk to their starkest common denominator - banditry.
Dozens of other bands of varying sizes roamed and scavenged eastern Burma. They attacked small, remote villages that were both defenseless and without communications to the rest of the world. The village men were killed and their women were taken. But food was the prize.
Some of the bands were merely anarchist. Other bands were led by desperate, sometimes demented, men who had ascended to their cachet over the dead bodies of those who confronted them.
Lak See, leader of the raid against BTC, was such a man.
He ordered his men back into the forest. Under cover of the bower they ran for three miles through the underbrush before stopping. There he ordered ten of the exhausted scavengers to carry the plunder to their lair in the jungle. The rest set an ambush to meet anyone who tried to follow from the site of the carnage. But no one gave chase.
After having recovered from the shock of the diversionary explosion and the deadly raid, the BTC Superintendent, who was in charge of the lumberjacks as well as the saw mill, made a desperate telephone call to a reckless, young American riverboat operator who lived in across the river in Laos. He called Jason Harte.
“Mr. Harte,” he began in a quivering, outraged voice, “several weeks ago, after that terrible affair with Michael Blackmore, you offered to use your riverboats to transport our timber to the railhead at Vientiane if the need should ever arise. The need has arisen in the most horrible way you can possible imagine. Bandits hit us today. They hit hard this time. We lost one of our two riverboats and several people were killed.
“Without taking time to discuss terms at the moment, I want you to begin transporting most of our timber on your riverboats.
He was reluctant to bring up the next subject. “Further, I know that experienced, if somewhat unconventional, men work for you.” He meant that Jason Harte employed some of the most dangerous cutthroats on the Mekong. “Our employees are ill prepared to defend against these bandits. I want you to provide protection for our remaining vessel. This is urgent. Please work it into your plans to start immediately.”
The British Superintendent rolled up the sleeves of his plaid work shirt. Strong but gaunt features rebelled at what he was forced to say next. “One final point and then I must get back to my duties. Jason, I also need your men to protect our mill and all our cutting operations. Just name your price.”
CHAPTER 2
A few months ago the call from the Superintendent of the huge Burmese Timber Corporation would have offered the financial key to a brilliant future for Jason Harte and his newly formed riverboat enterprise. But now he furrowed his brow and forced his fingers through longish, blond hair. His mien was to be aggressive, not contemplative. Nevertheless, the call from BTC brought back memories that clouded his ice blue eyes and drew at the corners of his wide lips. He pulled his fingers across his square, clean shaven jaw. Memory of his failures began to emerge from their entombment.
After his crash landing in Vietnam last year, he had tried to evade capture and find a way to return to his duty station aboard the carrier Enterprise. But he killed seven people before he even reached the Laotian border. His own Embassy abandoned him. The Royal Laotian Government issued an arrest warrant charging him with murder. A fugitive, he could return neither to his country nor to his duty station.
Embassy officials in Southeast Asia wanted nothing to do with him. But someone did. A man who represented himself as an Admiral in the United States Navy advised, perhaps ordered, him to remain in Laos. No reason was given at the time. So, rather than waiting idly, Jason decided to live out a fantasy adventure in business. Since then the clandestine Admiral regularly sent him on missions that were clearly beyond the legal pale of official U.S. policy. Jason Harte obediently honored his obligation to his country, risking his life in the process. But his commitment was to the challenge of his fantasy. He had a dream. That dream lured him to build an empire in the midst of competitors who would rather have seen him dead than successful.
A call from the BTC Superintendent at that time would have spelled the difference between success and failure. What had come instead was a call from an impostor who lured Jason into a fraudulent contract that caused the loss of everything he owned.
Prior to that fateful call, he had dared the odds in his struggle for economic survival. He used his exceptional hubris and his brilliant smile to promote the Asian Trading Company from a concept with zero assets into a small enterprise that had four riverboats and the kind of potential that drives ambitious men. But he had waded into dark waters where the battle scarred sharks of the Southeast Asian business community smelled blood. They tore him to pieces. In their teeth he hemorrhaged his tiny fleet and all of his cash. He had been left with nothing. Not even his friends could save him. Xiang Khoung, whom he had wrecked and then redeemed, remained loyal. But he couldn't rescue him. Lim and Lang, the mendacious riverfront cutthroats who had served him so faithfully, would have killed for him. But they could not save him. Jason Harte had been broken.
By neither temperament nor experience had he been prepared for the humiliation of being proved to be inferior to the wit and cunning of those with whom he had chosen to compete. But the humbling ego crash injured and diminished him.
The experience had darkened his perceptions, ignited ruthlessness, and destroyed the alacrity and altruism that had once characterized the aggressive entrepreneur. And there had been other matters that were still too dark to allow near the surface of his consciousness. They involved murder.
Gradually, he had rebuilt his fleet from the salvaged remains of those whom he was strong enough to conquer. Although precarious, it was profitable enough to keep alive his dream of building a shipping empire.
So he did not greet the Superintendent's telephone call with the thoughtless joy of windfall even though it would increase his earnings by thousands of dollars per month. Pride did not uplift him with the knowledge that his formidable daring had retrieved him from the edge of a grave named ruin. Instead, he cleared his mind of memories and focused realistically on what had to be done, what had to be learned, and how to take the fullest advantage of the changed circumstances. Then he made a call to the manager of his riverboat operation at Asian Trading Company.
'Get Xiang on the line,” was all he said to Xiang Khoung's secretary, a scaly dragon in her own right.
The man, whom Jason had once brought to total ruin and then dragged back to respectability, took the phone and began scratching notes as fast as he could write with his handsome Sheaffer fountain pen.
“Bandits sank one of BTC's boats,” Jason told him. “Put a crew on our largest riverboat and get it up to their dock. We're going to start shipping timber for them.”
Jason began to sweat and talk faster. “Have our speedboat outfitted with bullet proof plastic like Dupont Lexan or Lexgard. Cut ten or twelve gun ports in the plastic just like the kind you see in American armored cars.
“As soon as you have that work under way, buy a second speedboat and do the same thing to it. Hire crews for each boat and arm them with automatic weapons. We'll send one to protect our riverboat and one to protect the remaining BTC vessel, if they chose to use it.
He paused for a moment to rub his chin, the better to think and plan ahead. “Then have a light weight frame welded above the waterline on one of our other riverboats. Design it so that a plastic net can be hung around the entire vessel to protect it from magnetic dynamite charges. Let me know when you have something that works. I'll sell the idea to BTC.”
Jason Harte conducted business in the manner to which he had become accustomed. He was pleasant, direct, authoritative and, above all, terse. He relied heavily on people who had proven themselves in the past. And he tried to suppress dark memories of his previous failures.
“Next, charter a barge and the biggest pile driver you can find. Get some submersible jacks. Big ones. Use them to salvage the BTC boat.”
Xiang interrupted, “Do we have a salvage agreement with BTC?”
“Don't worry about that. Just get the job done.
“Now, put your secretary on the line. I'll get a status report from her.”
“All right, Mr. Harte,” Xiang's ugly, well prepared secretary said with measured belligerence. She was convinced that Jason had no interest in business. He was merely a young adventurer. Having been Xiang's secretary for so many years, she was certain that her loyalty to him justified the contemptuous disdain she felt when Jason was around. After all, he had once brought Xiang to economic and social ruin. Even though he had, in her opinion, finally seen his error, Jason was a man to be watched - or in her case, to be ignored when possible. “Here is the status report. Only three of our riverboats are idle. The others are loaded with Fat Quin's crepe and should reach the railhead this afternoon. Three are loading coffee and tobacco at our dock in Luang Prabang. Two are unloading at the railhead and two are under way to L.P. They should arrive in the morning.
“The other four boats are carrying contract goods from Pak Xen to Pakxe. They'll arrive at noon tomorrow and they are scheduled to reload with tar and asphalt that the government will use to resurface the road from Pak Xen to Phonsavan. They will be tied up at least three weeks. That accounts for all vessels.”
Even though she showed no respect for the young American, she admired the way he and Xiang had elbowed their way back into business and then boasted the largest fleet of riverboats on the Mekong. Customers were the problem. Without them, the riverboats would be useless. Admittedly Jason had been masterful at negotiating new contracts. But could he keep them?
“With respect to the competition,” she reported, “Three Hands' boats are loading rice south of Pak Xen.
“Eleven of Trane Transportation's boats are idle. We've taken a lot of their business. Lee Lu Trane is absolutely furious. He's making all kinds of threats. He hates you.”
“Good,” Jason said. “Let's have the weather report next.”
She did that and then, offhandedly, she mentioned a handwritten note that had been left for him. Scratched across the back of an envelope were the words, “Would it be convenient for you to meet me at the Golf Club at one in the afternoon day after tomorrow.” Someone named Phillip had signed it. No doubt Jason and one of his friends will spend the day playing while Xiang slaves at his desk.
Jason merely raised one eyebrow. Months of anticipation had dispatched any possibility of surprise. The message had been inevitable. It was another one from Admiral Phillip Langsford.
The Admiral, if he was an Admiral, had intertwined his clandestine objectives with Jason's life, appearing out of the mysterious miasma of Southeast Asian politics to make suggestions and ask for unique assistance. Repayment had been made in ways that were equally unique and tailored to the Admiral's purposes. He didn't bother to wear a uniform and he demanded that Jason refer to him by his first name - never by his rank. But his clout was manifest. In order to accomplish his objectives, he had secretly arranged for Jason's honorable discharge from the Navy while he was a fugitive in Laos. Shortly afterwards he had provided him with a valid passport and unquestionable visas to stay in Southeast Asia on business even though Jason had already successfully concluded the Admiral's affairs with the Chinese dissidents. Selling guns to them had been dangerous and probably illegal. But it had provided Jason with the financial basis to go as far as his courage would take him. And the Chinese rebels were grateful. Mao was less pleased. He had sent the Red Army to southeast China to retaliate.
It was clear that Jason would be indebted to the Admiral on a more or less permanent basis. Clandestine arrangements with government agents rarely had clean cutoff points. So he had always known that the Admiral would call on him again when he or his 'friends' needed something special. Stories in the media about rebel uprisings in South China had set the scene for him to materialize again into his life.
It would have been a more comfortable arrangement if the Admiral had been of the usual Navy ilk. It was disconcerting to deal with a high ranking officer who always appeared in pastel polo shirts and slacks instead of the more traditional khakis and stars. Never mind. In his presence Jason had come to feel like a famulus at the pedestal of a fabled mantic.
“Something important?” the dragon asked sarcastically.
The oblique answer was, “Well, I'll be out of touch day after tomorrow.”
“Oh? Where are you going?” she asked contemptuously.
“To pay a debt, I think.”
* * * * *
A bottle of Pinch sat between them at the Kilometer 6 Golf Club. Jason had appeared as invited - requested - ordered, whatever. The rain that poured from the skies and the scotch that splashed from the bottle threatened to inundate the two men who stubbornly resisted the soddening effect of each. Jason's eyes registered the effect of the whiskey only to the extent that they no longer focused.
The Admiral's thick, white hair was neatly trimmed. Nevertheless it covered his collar and the tops of his ears, evidencing that his current military status was other than ordinary. A weather beaten face bore wrinkles on the sides of his mouth. His eyes were not cold and sterile as were those of most men whose progress through life had been dominated by regimentation. Instead, his wide, square set jaw and his light blue eyes were the foundations of a face that had developed its character through intelligence rather than brute authority. But his bearing and demeanor were not so casual as to lead one to question his power.
Innate intelligence and remarkable insight had made him more valuable to his country as a facilitator than as a commander. Thus his unusual position - maybe. Certainly the Admiral was no mere spy. However, the distinction might not be entirely obvious to the casual observer because his methods were inherently clandestine. Probably his objectives were in the national interest but they were not necessarily entitled to the status of national policy.
“Jason, the rebellion in south China has reached nine cities,” he said, believing that he had not slurred his words. “There has been a lot of media coverage. Public opinion is swinging toward the rebels. The repercussions are just now being felt on a national and international basis. So there's trouble - serious trouble. The Chinese Army is attacking civilians in towns where the dissidents live. You've seen the TV. There's been a slaughter.”
Phillip Langsford tried to pretend that his elbow had not slipped off the table and nearly sent him to the floor. He readjusted his posture before continuing. “To make matters worse, the rebels are in desperate need of supplies, particularly ammunition. Otherwise 1972 will be a year of pure crap for them. If the rebellion fails, the people of southern China will suffer for decades. Failure would mean the end of the media coverage that has highlighted Mao as a murderer and the Cultural Revolution as a disastrous failure.
“You know, Jason, what they really need is a base where their men can be resupplied. Probably not a large facility. In fact, I'll bet they want one that is well hidden and completely isolated.”
A very long silence followed.
Jason wondered whether he had heard right. Had his favorite scotch served to provide the basis of deniability in the event the conversation ever became public? Well, most brands of scotch were his favorite. So he leaned forward to listen more closely.
But the Admiral allowed the silence to continue. His timing was perfect. Once again, Jason was forced to read between the lines of what the Admiral was thinking.
A resupply base for rebels in or near southern China meant northern Laos.
A secret of that magnitude was being discussed with a civilian in a bar at an exclusive golf club. That means I have been nominated to acquire a base for rebels to attack China. Great.
Reading between the lines of another's thoughts was difficult at best. Bandits in Burma and dissidents in Chinese swirled in and out of focus. The room began to spin.
Jason asked, “Does the U.S. Government support, you know, this idea?”
“How should I know? We aren't even having this conversation.”
“But someone supports it, right?”
“Oh, I guess so.”
“And I am supposed to find a location for this base.”
“Jason, what a good idea you just had,” the Admiral slurred. “That's one of the things I like about you. Now here is how one could expand on your idea.” Hope I didn't put to much emphasis on that pronoun. “You have already had contact with a rebel leader. Maybe it was Lee something or another. You ran the guns they are using and you made a small fortune in the process. I can see how you might want to stay involved with their cause.”
“Admiral, I ...”
“Remember. As between us my name is Phillip. Never refer to rank.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Excuse me. I was just going to point out that I'm no real estate agent. I wouldn't know where to look.”
“Right!” The Admiral responded as if Jason had said something else entirely. “Our friends needed you then and they need you now.”
Useless, Jason thought. “I see. How much land do they need?”
“Not much, I imagine. But I'll bet they want it to be remote.”
“How soon?”
The reply was not very enigmatic. “Do you read the newspapers or watch television news?”
CHAPTER 3
One hundred twenty miles north of Luang Prabang on a mountain top near Muang Sing was a fortress that was situated behind a whitewashed stone wall. Within its enclosure were seven ornate buildings. Outside the wall was an all weather landing strip and an aluminum hanger that housed a gleaming white executive jet. Another jet sat on the runway with its engines idling. The seats had been rolled forward on their tracks and wooden crates weighing sixty pounds each were being loaded into the carpeted cargo area where the seats had been.
Two pilots wore aviator styled sunshades, crisp white shirts with epaulets, sharply creased trousers and shiny WeIlingtons. They walked beside a well dressed businessman on their way to the aircraft.
A shirtless ground crewman in short pants and tennis shoes had already removed one set of chocks from the port side landing gear. One last set was braced against the nose wheel. The plane would be airborne in fifteen minutes with its cargo of heroin.
At each corner of the fortress wall an armed man sat in a sun chair scanning the horizon through powerful binoculars. Three others walked in random order on the wall's rampart. They were also armed. All of the wall guards wore knee length pants and multicolored short sleeve shirts. Ray Ban or Porsche sunglasses hung around their necks on Day-Glo ribbons above gold chains and sun burns. Barefooted and cocky, they were the elite, or so they were told.
A medieval mentality evidenced itself at the fortress. The corbels that extended over the edge of the wall provided a footing from which hot oil could be poured onto those who might assault from below. The architectural concept was incongruous with the backdrop of radio and radar antennas that bristled from the rooftops - modern weapons in the hands of medieval men.
Inside the compound gate were gardens, watered lawns and marble statues that were laced walkways of polished stone circled from one area to another, joining a swimming pool and tennis court with the guards' dormitory, storehouse and armory.
This was the fortress of Kublam, the most powerful warlord in northern Laos.
The mansion itself was a two story structure of multiple, incompatible designs. Shapely nude caryatid columns had breasts so large they were hardly hidden by the vines of marble grapes that draped suggestively from their shoulders. The stone nymphs supported capitals of incongruous rough cut rock. They formed the superstructure of an open entryway that led to an arched lintel.
Two tall, narrow archer windows ridiculously graced each side of the black and red entrance door. Their casements slanted outward to form loopholes in the battlement through which to shoot arrows at attackers. To confuse architectural critics, if not the enemy, the next adjacent set of windows were wide, inviting glass vantages that portended California hospitality.
The design, such as it was, left the distinct impression that, in the year thirteen hundred, Marco Polo had suddenly abandoned all of his accumulated architectural inventory in a heap and called it a house.
“Thus,” said the grizzled, sixty year old Kublam “at a cost of only eight point four million dollars we are protected from intruders like that evil Woo Dang and his army of drug sucking warriors. Not only that, we are now assured that no one will try to run away like one of my foolish wives did two years ago.”
He mused like this while he enjoyed breakfast with his twenty year old daughter, Kublia. Kublar, her older sibling, drank coffee with them and listened with interest to his father. The Chief of Staff joined them but he was not invited to sit down. He lavishly praised Kublam's farsightedness. Even though he was the most powerful man in the organization, he just couldn't help being a sycophant.
“Well, that will never happen again,” said Kublam as he pushed his muscular two hundred forty pounds away from the table. He allowed his oversized tunic to drape in regal splendor over the arms of the chair that he dwarfed. Extra wide pants hung over his boots leaving the impression of a silk robe from which a warrior might emerge to vanquish dragons and simpler foes.
“Father,” Kublia said respectfully to invite his attention to more important matters. Her black eyebrows arched beautifully over puffed eyelids and bright, intelligent eyes, “You promised to update the video library the very next time you sent a plane to Hong Kong. I've been watching for the new movies. But there are none.”
Kublam's thoughts drifted away from his fresh fruit and highly spiced sausage. He was convinced that the VHS movies had corrupted his other eight children with false ideas about the world and its values. Not only videos, but also his extensive library had led them astray. No sooner had his older children begun to read and waste their time watching American movies than they became discontented with the luxuries offered within the compound walls.
At a very young age they had begun to argue with their tutors. As each of them entered adolescence they began to dispute the authority of the Chief of Staff. Each, in his or her turn, began to make unreasonable demands on their respective mothers. They disdained the money that had been spent in stupefying abundance on their entertainment.
All to no avail. Each, in his or her turn, wanted more.
They wanted to travel to the foreign lands that they had read about and seen in those damned videos.
Cloy offspring! Kublam reflected from his grand chair how the first two had wanted to go to London. The next one needed to go to Paris. Then things went down hill. The rest could only learn about life in such holes of corruption as Los Angeles, New York and Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, where the last two were desperately needed by the poverty stricken people.
“Look,” Kublam said with measured authority and love. “Look at what you already have.” He waived his hand generously.
Kublam, massive jowls bristling with a heavy, graying beard, was possessed of a powerful constitution that enabled him to direct the physical and fiscal affairs of the empire that surrounded him. For forty years he had kept his enemies out of his compound and beyond the territorial limits of his realm. All perished who stood in the way - as did the enemies of his grandfathers for the past two hundred fifty years.
But enemies and children were different matters.
As he waved his massive, calloused hand, he hoped his offspring would recognize the balance he had to achieve between domestic and business affairs. “We are the most powerful family in northern Laos and southern China. We must chose carefully between activities that enliven and those that merely teach of ways other than our own.”
Acutely aware of his power, he had become an expert in its use. Subtly, with infinite patience and finesse, or overtly with great force and destruction, he attempted to keep ideas and events molded into the historical ways of his ancestors. He did it with the colorful amain of aging determination. New ideas were driven away with the might of his will, as if they had been attacking warriors.
He glanced his two offspring to be sure they were listening. “You know I want you, and all my children, to have everything that will bring happiness and success in these times.”
But he was no fool. Pushing boulders or teenagers uphill served no useful purpose. Therefore, as each of his eight older children was persuaded by his or her indisputable, unassailable logic that the world at large was of greater importance than the historical traditions of the feudal warlord's domain, release ensued. They were allowed to leave, not with love, but with tears, disgrace, and millions of dollars to tide them over from one episode to another in the lives that they had chosen for themselves.
Only the husky, clean shaven Kublar and his sister, Kublia, younger by two years, remained at home.
They remained, Kublam was certain, not because of their insight or their abstract appreciation for honor and tradition, but because of his inordinate cunning.
For example, he had selectively removed from their library all the books of knowledge that led mankind to grope for wisdom that was beyond his experience!
Without remorse, he burned the biographies of Plato and his more important student, Aristotle who, four hundred years before Christ, pointed out a course by which man could study and understand the logic of his unexplained universe. Aristotle had taught the abandonment of magic in favor of scientific observation including astronomy, zoology, geography, and physics. Kublam thanked every god that sat on his well stocked bar that he had been a mature man before being subjected to the likes of those two gigantic figures who fathered awful western thought and scientific inquiry.
Thoughts like those will not corrupt Kublia and Kublar, he thought while twisting his mustache and gazing at his offspring. My primary duty to those for whom I am responsible is to insure that they are protected from such thinking.
To that end he had carefully deselected from their library the stories of virtually every leading figure in European history from fourteen hundred to sixteen fifty, beginning with Copernicus. After all, everyone now agrees with the heliocentric maxim that the earth rotates on its own axis in a defined orbit around the sun. No clerical injunction now prohibits such a thought. So there is no reason to unearth the intellectually inquiring nature of the great mind that developed it.
Indeed, it was not the factual information about the discoveries that Kublam feared for his children to have. It was the thought process that had led to those discoveries. That's what I fear. I hate men who come up with new ideas. Old, traditional ones are a hell of a lot better. Better to protect youth from old thinkers than to risk losing them to dreams of discovery.
Narrowing his eyes, and then glancing away when he thought the youngsters were looking at him, he delighted in the fact that stories of those great men had been deleted. I deleted them because of the persistence of their imaginations and their ambition to search for greater glories than were the due of ordinary men who should be well satisfied with the status quo at home.
For good measure he also removed stories about the origins of organized scientific and logical inquiry. They were thrown into the fire in the good company of Galileo, Descartes and Francis Bacon. Ah, If only the Inquisitions had been more actively pursued, all such adventurous men would have been burned at the stake and the youth of our world would have been left to the proper tutelage of their parents. After all, it is they who are now forced to suffer at the hands of rebellious, undisciplined offspring.
Fathers should be allowed to structure academics in a manner that will lead youth to appreciate historical tradition rather than to rebel against established conditions and charge pell-mell into the unknown ocean of vagaries where they will begin to imitate their imaginations.
He almost let his musing get ahead of good family politics when he muttered aloud, “Teach our own history! Forget about force of intellect that lure us away from it!”
“Sorry, father, what did you say?”
“Oh, oh. Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Of course the gruff, hardened, sixty-year-old Kublam had not totally neglect the education of these, his last two children.
Canny and sagacious, he was cognizant of the true nature of the world and the way to live there in peace and happiness.
As he had done so often, he reflected on China and the billions of human beings who had lived there. Of all the peoples on earth, they were the least tortured by war and the ravages that its destruction had visited upon mankind. Historically, China rarely attacked its neighbors or engaged in world conquest, give or take its current dictator whose philosophy would surely collapse around itself within the generation.
“Young people,” he muttered, “should be taught the insights, not of intellectual adventurers, but of the mind set that gave Old China its serenity, its sense of peace rather than hope.”
That is how history can be understood by those with learning disabilities - like teenagers.
History, if not logic, proved his point. Or, if not history, then brute force. That sometimes worked. Thus, the destruction of the library.
He resituated his sword so it wouldn't cut his pants and he pushed both of his pearl handled pistols deeper into his belt. “You youngsters must realize that such thinking has protected our realm from invaders for over two hundred fifty years. The Way dictated that our family live on the land in peace. I am merely the instrument that enforces peace with walls, radar and rifles.” He arose from the table and smashed his fist into his palm in an effort to argue as if there were any disagreement. “Enlightenment is not all that difficult!”
For additional support, should additional support somehow be required by the youth that yawned lovingly in his face, he pointed out that their copies of The Prince by Machiavelli had been left in the library. Thoughtfully, of course, he had creased the book at an underlined quote, which taught rulers that it is good to be both feared and loved, but it is much safer to be feared than loved. Love is held by the chain of obligations that, men being selfish, is broken whenever it serves their purposes; but fear is maintained by dread of punishment which never fails.
The library was a decided issue that he was sure had served his family well. Observe. I still have two of my ten or eleven children left!
But, now, what to do about those damned videos?
In his own enlightenment, he had hired four occidentals and four Asian philosophers to edit them and cut out misleading dialog or - especially - modern ideas.
Still, he could not account for this extraordinary delay.
“Your new tapes will probably be here soon, I assure you.” Otherwise I'll kick some philosophical ass. “And for you, Kublar, a new Weatherby 300 Magnum rifle with a telescopic sight and engraving by the finest Arabic engraver in the world.”
“Thank you, Father,” they both intoned simultaneously. But not much enthusiasm was revealed between yawns.
Teaching by intelligent selection, as Kublam liked to refer to his own literary skill, had worked. Obviously. The wonderful results sat before him in enlightened obedience. He should tell the world about these wonders. Who needs college!
The husky Kublar and the beautiful Kublia would not necessarily have agreed wholeheartedly if they had been queried. But they were not.
In spite of the sometimes comical old warrior's primordial instincts about values and family life, they actually loved him and endured him to a point. From their earliest years they had never been excluded from discussions concerning the family business.
So it was in character that the ruthless, loving, old man changed the subject and demanded of the Chief of Staff, “Where the hell is the maggot that killed our two men? One of sneaky Woo Dang's men, no doubt.”
“He is hiding someplace on the second plateau,” Lie now, live to see tomorrow.
“I want his ass spread between two trees and whacked in two with a machete.” Kublam knew that, if the trespasser had not been captured by then, he would never be found. But he had to keep the Chief of Staff on his toes because the warlord, Woo Dang, would stoop to anything.
“Rest assured, we will catch him before the sun sets this afternoon,” the Chief replied, hoping that he would not have to resort to secretly killing one of his own men for the sole purpose of providing bloody evidence that the encroacher had been caught and punished. That deception had worked in the past. But it tended to deplete the ranks.
After Kublam finished his oration on education, he stuffed one giant pant leg into a soft boot and adjusted his sword again. The hilt stuck out of his red and blue sash, just as it had from the belt of his great great grandfather. Deep blue sapphires studded the handle with the letter 'K' thus announcing the rich crest of its owners. It was important that the name of the family be kept prominent and ominous before the other warlords whose forces controlled the rest of northwestern Laos and northeastern Burma.
Particularly must malevolent Woo Dang be held at bay. An archenemy for decades, he was a constant threat. Kublam's ostentatious fortifications had sufficed in the past for that purpose. By virtue of strength and the instinct to survive, his family had maintained feudal title to the northwestern most corner of Laos for the past two hundred fifty years and prevented the likes of Woo Dang and other warlords from encroaching. Bordered by China on the north and the Mekong River on the west, two thousand five hundred square miles rested under Kublam's authority. None would be allowed to forget or deny the antiquity of his claim.
Kublar knew this and appreciated the possibility that Woo Dang might do something stupid. So he said to The Chief of Staff, “I can't understand how a wounded man could have killed two of our guards and then crawled into the poppy fields and simply disappeared. Maybe he used a helicopter. Did you search for any plants that may have been damaged by prop wash?”
The Chief was caught off guard by the question that he should have investigated, but never thought of. However, years of annealing in the heat of Kublam's glare had taught him to invent a snarling idiolect, a speech pattern designed to cower those who challenged him.
He snarled, “Certainly. That was our first order of search. The fields are unscathed.” Beads of perspiration broke out on his face.
Kublia asked whether a rope ladder could have dropped from a helicopter to rescue a wounded man near the canyon edge where poppies won't grow.
The Chief, a dedicated misogynist who hated women in direct ratio to their beauty, excoriated her and told Kublam that the radar system would have spotted a helicopter.
Unintimidated by the acrid tone, she countered, “Could the helicopter have flown up the canyon? Could the man have climbed down to be rescued?” If this old idiot spent more time thinking and less time in front of mirrors in the dojo admiring his karate stances, he might be of some nominal use to us.
Kublam raised an appreciative, scarred eyebrow, and cut off the Chief's vindictive reply. “That sounds like something worth investigating. Kublar, you and Kublia check the canyon walls for signs of climbers. Check the southern trails that lead to Woo Dang's fortress. Watch for his men and all other snakes as well. Now, go.”
Solicitously, but intending to traduce her later, the Chief said to Kublam, “They might run into trouble. Let me suggest that my son, Lo Kim Sai, serve as Kublia's personal bodyguard.” Plainly Lo Kim Sai will never find his own way into her bed without help. Ugg, I cannot bear the disgusting thought of Kublia ever becoming a member of my family. But I will endure, given that she will bring Kublam's fortune with her.
Kublia, for her part, shuddered at the thought of the cretin being near her. Not that she disliked Lo Kim Sai. He was simply too loathsome for words. Revulsion swept over her like nausea every time he came near because he always leered at her and flexed his ample muscles like a gorilla in heat. He wore very short pants that were much too small for him.
No, it was not that she disliked him. She hated him. But she did her father's bidding and accepted the offer. Lo Kim Sai was thrilled to the point of letting his love fantasy overwhelm him. He rushed to the helicopter, stopping only long enough to rub fragrant body oil all over his swarthy chest.
Kublam's helicopter hovered over the plateau near the edge of the tributary where Kublam's murdered guards had been found. It disgorged three men and a woman who was similarly dressed in khaki shorts, Monari climbing boots with Vibran soles, and thick wool socks. Only Kublia carried a Kovitch AL-21 while the others were armed with the ubiquitous AK-47. The assault rifles had a greater range and fired a much heavier bullet. But the incredible firepower of the Kovitch was unmatched. Within its range it was the most lethal weapon on the market. Even though its size was only slightly larger than a standard issue Colt .45 automatic pistol, its rate of fire was spectacular.
She kept one under her pillow at night.
Lo Kim Sai, who had cut another two inches off his short pants, led the way and daydreamed about holding the tiny hand of his love-to-be. He was followed by Kublar, Kublia, and a sharpshooter who brought up the rear.
They decided to explore the eastern reaches of the canyon first because Lo Kim Sai imperiously stalked off in that direction without consulting those who should have known whom to follow. Women love decisive men.
“Not too close to the edge,” he instructed over his thick shoulder. “It may look solid. But the jagged rocks are cracked and will fall without warning. Stay behind me.”
However, he walked too fast for Kublar and Kublia. They needed time to carefully study the edge for scraped dirt or footprints. Besides, it was grotesque to walk behind the man who wore such tight pants and whose powerful legs flexed with each feline step.
Kublar said to his sister, “Let's look over the edge for scuff marks. Maybe someone climbed down into the canyon.” He removed the coiled nylon rope from his shoulder and threw the bitter end over the side between a fissure in the rock.
“Coil the rope around that outcropping of stone and belay the line. I'll climb down a few feet and see if anything is out there. If we do this every hundred feet or so, we'll have a pretty good idea whether father's 'maggot' escaped this way.”
Just as he started to climb down, Lo Kim Sai demanded to know, “What the hell is going on here? Where do you think you are going? This will take forever and you will find nothing.” Here's my chance to walk close to Kublia. But this idiot wants to play Tarzan.
Ignoring him, Kublar looped the line, knotted it correctly and climbed out of sight. A few moments later he returned.
“The wall hasn't been disturbed. Let's go a little farther east.”
Lo Kim Sai suddenly agreed. That started everyone to thinking. He was quick to recognize the tactile possibilities, as he usually was when he got around Kublia.
At the next crevasse in the jagged edge Kublar again threw the nylon rope over the side. Lo Kim Sai leered and said, “You go ahead. Your sister and I will belay.”
He took the rope and put his hands around her shoulders so they could serve as a single anchor.
“Not hardly,” she snapped. “Let go of me and give me the loop.” Kublia had been around the man's fondling hands before and understood him perfectly. Lurching away, she took the rope to the edge. Lo Kim Sai was left standing to one side, seething.
They found no evidence that an intruder had used the ledge. Their search continued two hours while Lo Kim Sai pouted.
Finally they came to a crevasse that bore telltale scuff marks.
“This is it,” Lo Kim Sai shouted. “This is the place.” Jumping at a conclusion he pointed and declaimed, “Woo Dang's men came up here. They entered the poppy field from this crevasse.”
“Someone came up here, all right,” Kublar agreed. “But why would Woo Dang do something so stupid? He has thousands of acres of poppies of his own. So why would he send anyone up here? What could he take?”
Lo Kim Sai emerged from his pout and announced, “All of your questions are answered by one simple observation, Kublar. Who else could it have been? Woo Dang is our enemy. That's who it was. We must double our guards.”
Kublar let the matter rest. Additional guards couldn't hurt anything. But Lo Kim Sai might.
* * * * *
Thirty-five miles south of Muang Sing on a rolling plateau that drained into a tributary of the Mekong River was a field of more than two thousand acres that belonged to the warlord, Woo Dang. From one of his helicopters it appeared to be an ocean of red water. Millions of lanky opium poppies waved in the breeze like Kansas wheat fields on a summer afternoon.
The pilot's destination was a concrete pad at the east end of the poppy field near Woo Dang's walled compound. The pilot descended from his cruising altitude of three hundred feet and approached over the north-south runway until the craft hovered at ten feet.
The heavily armed man in the right hand seat surveyed the guards who watched from the wall. He nodded to the pilot when he was satisfied that no one posed a threat. Then the pilot turned toward the pad, maneuvered the collective, and landed precisely on the white arrow that indicated due north.
There were no lush green grasses or colorful gardens of vernaculars to surround the pad as there were at Kublam's fortress. Woo Dang had no need for such niceties. The path that led to his gateway was stark. A tractor emerged from the splintered wooden gate in the cold, gray wall pulling a cart that rolled on resilient rubber wheels. The driver ducked his head beneath the still spinning rotor and parked.
Two shabbily dressed men went to the cargo door, and began removing galvanized steel buckets which were closed with metal lids. Twenty such containers were loaded into the cart before it was hauled back into the compound.
The gunmen who guarded the fortress wall did not wear designer sunglasses or in any other way conceal their baleful eyes from the sun while they sauntered the rampart. They were armed with AK47's and seemed to be searching for an excuse to use them.
Inside Woo Dang's compound was a laboratory that was guarded by twenty men who were armed with Kovitch AL-21's. Their lives were devoted to protecting the coagulated latex of the opium poppies from the moment the helicopter landed until the moment a twin engine Grumman business jet left with its load of processed China White heroin.
Woo Dang and his eldest son watched while the opium latex was ushered by his armed men into the processing building.
“In my entire sixty-five years,” said the gnarled patrician who ruled with an iron will, “I have never seen such production. If our processing operations were still scattered out among our several growing areas, as are those of the hypocrite Kublam, they would have been the targets of uncountable gun battles in which many men would have been killed and profits lost.” He scratched his burly jaw and shared a thought. “We are at relative peace because of the new vats and heaters you see before you.”
Standing tall and proud, his eldest son surveyed the new heroin processing plant. With reverence and admiration he said, “The decision was worthy of you, my Father. It was a courageous move to invest in transport helicopters and a central processing plant. If only my brothers would appreciate these progressive innovations. Instead they polish their riding boots and complain about the noisy helicopters.” He banged his forehead with his palm and asked, “How can they be such Neanderthals? Woo Tay is the worst.”
“My son, you might be well advised to be patient with them. It is true that they continue to fantasize about another era. They envision themselves as warriors, not businessmen. Not entirely to their discredit, they dream of charging steeds, slashing swords, and their colors flying proudly above the fortresses of lesser men. They have little the cash that is literally stuffed into our warehouse.”
The grizzled old warlord put his arm around his son and reflected with him, “Listen to me. Particularly should you be more thoughtful of young Woo Tay. He is still maturing and gaining wisdom.”
Stuffing his hands in his pockets and jutting out his chin, he ventured to enlighten his son, “True, at this point he is not like his brothers. They exhibit gallantry and strength. They,” he explained proudly, “are like the battle scarred heroes whose portraits hang from our walls to remind us of men who conquered, not through innovation, but through the strength of the sword. He will mature and someday he may stand at your side when you need the protection of a true man.”
“But father,” he complained. “Except for Woo Tay, all of them are all too damned macho to abandon old way in favor of new technology.” Kicking a weed away from the walk, he clinched his fists and said, “Those unwitting Americans have given us the weapons of war. We can control of all the opium trade in the golden triangle. We should act now! Father,” he pleaded. “we already have the best trained chemists in the country. We have hundreds of millions of dollars to hire an army. We should just take the poppy fields we need in Laos and Burma.” His huge frame shook with the fervor of ambition. “When will we act?”
“Shh! Not so loud.” Woo Dang glanced over his shoulder to see whether the pilot had heard. “You must learn to be patient, not only with your brothers, but also with history itself. It unfolds at a pace of its own. The demanding ambitions of men are not the metronome by which it gauges its cadence,” he said sagaciously. “For example, history tells us how decisive our first move will have to be. If it is less that absolute, the Four Khans will have no other option than to attack us. And we'll be dead.”
He agreed with his father and shuddered at the prospect.
While he had never met any of the four Khans, he and everyone else knew they wielded power at least equal to that of the King and his Ministers. Their decisions had the force of law and they would brook no prolonged war between the poppy growers. Not unlike powerful lobbyist who actually controlled those whom they influenced, they provided an interface between the King and the factions of his kingdom - the Kingdom of One Million Elephants.
One of the Four Khans, Khan Koyu Maharu, discouraged battles between the feudal warlords. It was bad for business. An open conflict could result in what would be tantamount to civil war. It would be incumbent on the Four Khans to form a coalition to crush and destroy an unsuccessful aggressor. Woo Dang became even more circumspect at the thought of such an attack. But, although daunted, Woo Dang's eldest son was a man who dreamed of nothing less than the total domination of the Laotian opium trade.
CHAPTER 4
The King's Ministers ran Laos under his titular leadership. George Wauk was the Minister of State Security. His niece, Delores Chen, had become Jason's closest friend and more since he and Kefu separated. It was because of Delores that Jason had been invited to an annual party that the Minister gave in honor of the most powerful men in the country.
Jason fit into such company neither by appearance nor preference. Taller than most, and of light complexion, he watched with soft blue eyes while others stared through hard, dark coals. Casual, self-assured, he strolled through the crowd in a detached state. Small talk was not his forte. But the opportunity to meet powerful men could not have been presented to him more perfectly. So he made the effort. Some of the guests were businessmen whom Jason had met since arriving in Laos. Ki Song was there. And so was Three Hands.
Aggressive, verbose and deeply dedicated to his own fortune, Three Hands peered at Jason from beneath brushy eyebrows. His wide face bore the battle scars of a fifty year struggle for business supremacy. A flowing mustache and piercing, black eyes distinguished the man who was a riverboat operator and the owner of the largest department store in Laos.
Jason didn't speak to Lee Lu Trane, who was huddled with some of the most potent magnets in the room. Why should he? After all, Lee Lu Trane was more than a competitor. He was dedicated to swallowing the Asian Trading Company and its riverboats. The two men hated each other. Since Jason avoided people he didn't like, he tried to walk away when he saw Le Lu Trane bull his way toward him. Avoiding him was as hopeless as avoiding the monsoon wind.
“Why, Jason, good evening.” He snapped his fingers at a waiter. “Bring a bottle of Pinch for this man. He is obviously thirsty for something.” Blood, no doubt.
Lee Lu Trane's physique resembled a square bowling ball. The resemblance carried over to his social graces. He laughed loudly and slapped Jason on the back with a blow that knocked him forward. Jason turned to level a cold, blue stare at the shorter, bulkier man whose gold bracelet could have been the anchor chain for a battleship.
“Thanks for the drink,” Jason said. “If you ever slap me like that again, you had better be sure your hospitalization insurance is paid up.”
“Oh, now, let's not be unfriendly. As a man more than twice your age and infinitely more successful, I can afford to toy with my competitors, no matter how insolent they are. What better way to callus them?”
The dragon in Lee Lu Trane had begun to emerge. That was the kind of challenge Jason often enjoyed. But he walked away. Another man had attracted his attention because he was dressed strangely. He wore wide, billowing pants and a full tunic instead of a tuxedo. The gruffness of his features was underscored by a grey mustache that flowed in luxurious fullness from a wide upper lip to the lower edge of his massive jaw. The almost round face told of Mongolian extraction. One of his unpolished boots rested irreverently on the seat of a chair at Khan Koyu Maharu's table.
He was introduced to Jason only as Kublam.
Even though Jason was five inches taller than the warlord, Kublam's hand swallowed his. Hard, telltale calluses told of the older man's life long avocation in the martial arts. Jason returned the crushing grip and dug his own callus into the man's huge palm. They stared at each other, not as if they were being introduced, but as if they were asserting mastery over each other. Kublam showed his large, perfect teeth in a smile that told the world he thought he had won out over the taller man. That made him happy.
“Any Anglo who has the balls to compete in the Mekong riverboat business,” he said with laughter in his eyes, “deserves a Laotian wife. Have a drink with me and meet my unmarried daughter.”
Chagrined and angry, Kublia said, “I apologize for my father. He has a horseman's manners.”