“We discussed it. We’re putting out the word to see if we can locate any friendlies in Myanmar. But don’t count on it. Best case, maybe we can get you some heavier ordnance.”
Which meant he was on his own. Reggie knew how the system worked. They wanted to keep him deniable, and a larger presence would jeopardize that. At the end of the day, Reggie was expendable, as were all field assets. The mission always came first.
“I’ll check back in once I’m across the river. Don’t bother calling. I’m shutting the phone off to save battery. Sounds like I’m going to be out here a while.”
“Understood.”
Reggie powered down and considered his next step. He’d need to find a way across the Mekong, which was easily three hundred yards at its narrowest point in that region, so negotiating it on his own was out of the question. Which meant he’d need a boat. Of course, the captain was history now, Reggie having moved from his campsite, assuming the Thai ever returned.
He set off north, hoping that he could find a native who would exchange safe passage for a fistful of dollars. Reggie was confident he would — the only question was how much time it would take to find someone.
Chapter 32
Joe led the group to the Mekong River, where one of his men had arranged a pair of dugouts to ferry them across the sprawling span of muddy rushing water. They climbed aboard, one of the precarious craft carrying Allie, Drake and Spencer, the other with Joe and Uncle Pete, who was quieter than usual. Their captain was a reed-thin man whose face was etched by a lifetime of hardship, and when he grinned a gap-toothed greeting, he looked like a demonic carving from one of the Khmer temples.
The trip across the river took five minutes, the tiny motor mounted to the back of the canoe barely able to negotiate the current. When the first boat arrived at the far side, they disembarked while the man watched the bank nervously. Once on land they waited for Joe and Uncle Pete, whose boat was slower, and Drake adjusted the ratty backpack strapped to his shoulders — one of three castoffs Joe had offered to lend them. Surprisingly, he didn’t charge them the price of a business jet to do so. They’d packed as many provisions as Joe could find them in the village, and each carried three curved thirty-round magazines for the AK-47s Joe had handed them.
“Chinese production, but reliable. You lose one, cost you a grand.”
“How much per bullet?” Spencer asked, his face serious.
“On the house, up to the first thirty, so make every shot count.”
Joe had grinned and explained that they would only need the weapons once they were in the disputed zone. While they were in established Shan territory, they’d be as safe as in their mother’s arms. Spencer had looked at him doubtfully but remained silent, and Drake had shaken his head and gone to help Allie pack her kit.
Birds called from the branches of the tall trees as Joe led them forward. Earlier, they’d agreed to remain silent until he rendezvoused with his Myanmar contact — a lieutenant who reported to General Yawd Serk, who headed up the rebel organization. That group, officially called the Shan State Army — South, had risen to power when the original Shan State Army dissolved in 1995.
The members of the group, as Joe informed them, wore actual uniforms and were well equipped with weapons from the U.S. and China, and appeared to be prosperous from their drug trafficking as well as clandestine funding from the American government.
“Why would the U.S. support a drug cartel?” Allie had asked.
Joe had shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
They began the trek through the jungle hills, sticking to the trails that snaked around the rises, the mud soon caking their boots with reddish-brown. After four hours of fast hiking, they arrived at a two-lane strip of battered asphalt running north to south, where a small Buddhist temple sat at the roadside, the sun blinding as it reflected off the curves of its golden dome. Three men, all in green camouflage uniforms, waited in the shade. Beside them were two of the sorriest tuk-tuks ever built and a motorcycle, all coated with a thick layer of mud.
One of the men detached himself from his companions and greeted Joe with a nod of his head. They spoke in hushed tones, and then Joe turned to Allie. “This is the welcome committee. They brought the vehicles for us — otherwise it would be a two-day walk, easy. He said the track is pretty decent, so we should be able to make it to their camp by nightfall.”
“They aren’t worried about an aerial attack from the Myanmar military?”
“It’s been quiet for a few years. Everything’s settled down, and there’s a cautious truce in place, even if neither side officially acknowledges it.” Joe walked over and inspected the tuk-tuks. “Two people will fit in each. I’ll ride bitch on the bike.”
Joe asked the Shan fighters a question, and they nodded in unison. Joe set his pack down, extracted a few mangos and a banana, and held them out to Allie and Drake. “Lunch time. They said we have ten minutes, and then we’ve got to get moving. Even they don’t want to brave the trails after dark.”
The company ate their fruit and were soon on their bouncing way. The tuk-tuks periodically slid in the mud, but the drivers were skilled enough to avoid disaster. The going was agonizingly slow, each slope posing a substantial challenge to the small engines, which buzzed like lawn mowers as the pilots gave them full throttle.
They stopped after three hours, and the drivers refilled the fuel tanks from plastic jugs. Then they were on the second leg, where the terrain became more treacherous with each mile. When twilight arrived, the men switched on their lights, and Joe called out from his position on the rear of the motorcycle. “Won’t be long now. He says we’re only a few klicks away.”
Joe’s optimism proved overstated, and it was pitch black when they pulled around a bend and saw fires glowing in a large clearing. Tents ringed the area, and they could make out soldiers patrolling the perimeter.
The vehicles drew to a stop in front of what looked like a command tent, the structure larger than those surrounding it, and the riders cut the motors. Everyone disembarked, and a short older man with a neatly clipped gray mustache approached, limping slightly as he neared. Joe nodded to him and offered a small respectful wai. The man mirrored the gesture and then studied the new arrivals. After a few uncomfortable moments, he said something Joe seemed to understand. Joe turned to them.
“This is Colonel Htut Leng. He commands this outpost. His word is law here. The only higher authority is the general, and of course, God.” Joe grinned. “And I’m not sure that’s the correct order.”
Leng motioned for them to move to one of the fires, where two logs had been pushed near to serve as benches. Leng lowered himself onto one and Joe sat opposite him. Allie joined Joe, trailed by Drake and Spencer. Uncle Pete reluctantly sat at the far end of the colonel’s log, appearing ill at ease.
Leng began speaking, offering what seemed like a monologue. When he was done, Joe waited as a sign of respect before translating.
“He says that while we are allies of sorts, your permits are meaningless to him, as they were issued by a rogue state he doesn’t recognize. So he respectfully declines your request to go in search of the ruins.”
Drake bristled, but Spencer eyed him calmly and he quieted himself before saying anything. “So that’s the opening salvo? How long do you think this will take?”
“These people love to negotiate. It’s like the national pastime. It could last hours.” Joe winked at Allie. “But I brought a healthy supply of rice wine, so we might be able to shorten it up some. We’ll see. It’s my special bottling — probably forty proof instead of around fifteen.”