Don Pendleton: Tiger War

Bolan knew he had to warn Stony Man Farm that Tiger was playing back the radio before the Farm gave the show away. On the other hand the show might have been given away already by Nark. But Bolan doubted this. Nark was tough. Either way Bolan had to move damn fast. It was jungle time in the everlasting war once again.

A turbaned woman appeared carrying a tray, the headman's number-one wife judging by the silver on her. Montagnards were polygamous, and the higher the woman's rank in the wifely pecking order, the more silver she was given by her husband.

The woman set down glasses and a bottle of tieu, the mountain people's rice whiskey. While the headman, poured their drinks, Bolan took a pack of cigarettes from his haversack and offered him one. At the sight of the brand, the headman's face beamed.

"Marlboro," he exclaimed. "Not smoke that since Laos." He stuck the cigarette behind his ear to save it for later. The cigarette that was stuck upright in the water pipe still had a few puffs left.

They raised glasses, and Bolan downed his drink in one swallow. A warm glow spread inside him, the whiskey chasing away the chills of the night. The headman refilled the glass while Bolan lit his cigarette with a stick from the fire.

Bolan took a deep drag. "How many Tiger soldiers guard the temple?"

"About thirty," replied the headman. The water in his pipe gurgled as he dragged on it.

"Nark said he had signed up three thousand men in the area for the attack on the Tiger camp," said Bolan.

"Yes," said the headman.

"How many signed in this village?"

"Four hundred."

"We could use some of those to attack the temple and free him."

The headman remained silent, eyes on the fire.

Warning bells rang in Bolan's head. Something was up. "Do you agree?" he pressed.

"The men have no arms," said the headman into the fire. "Tiger take all our rifles.''

"You have muskets and crossbows," Bolan countered. "Our superior numbers will take care of our inferior weapons."

The headman-made no reply. Suddenly the room was very still, the only sound the rustling of a paper skeleton blown by a slight breeze. It hung on a wall next to the ancestral altar, a charm to ward off evil spirits.

"What do you think?" asked Bolan, breaking the silence.

"The men don't want to fight," announced the headman quietly.

So that's what it is, Bolan thought. Nark's capture had given the Meo cold feet. "I don't understand," he began. "You told Nark that everyone in the Golden Triangle wanted to fight the Chinese. You said the Chinese enslaved you, that they made you grow opium and paid you low prices. You said they forced the men to be coolies and took your women. And now you say you don't want to fight."

"Only a fool fights to lose," the headman snapped. He fixed Bolan with his tiny eyes, the pupils glowing like coals. "When I tell Mr. Nark we want to fight, Tiger not know about operation. Now they know, now no surprise. No surprise, no win." The pipe gurgled as he resumed smoking.

"What you say might be right," said Bolan, "but only if Nark told Tiger about the operation. If he didn't, the operation can still be a surprise. First, however, I must speak to Nark. Let's make a deal. If you find me a hundred men to attack the temple, I will pay each a bar of silver. And you, I will pay twenty."

"You brought silver?" the headman asked, his interest perking up.

"I will have it sent to you as soon as I speak to my people on the radio. I don't know how long it will take — a week, maybe two weeks — but you will be paid. I give you my word."

"And if you are killed?"

"That is a chance you take, Major Vang Ky."

The headman started. "You know?"

"That you were a major in the CIA Montagnard army? Yes. They still remember you in the CIA as a valiant ally. That is why I sent Nark to you. I also know about you from your cousin Vang Jay."

"He is in America," said the headman.

"Yes, farming in Wyoming," said Bolan. "We fought together in South Vietnam. I was with the Hmong in Kontum." Hmong was the term the Meo liked to be known by. The term Meo, which everyone used, was Chinese for savages.

The headman stared into the fire, weighing the pros and cons of Bolan's offer. Bolan fell silent; he had nothing to add. What else could he have said? Help me keep America free from drugs? A decade or two ago, the headman's kind had been asked to help America defend the free world in Asia, only to be sold down the river when America tired of the fight. No, Bolan said to himself, he wasn't going to start moralizing, not to this man. Better to keep the deal strictly on a business level.

The headman reached for the bottle and topped Bolan's glass. "I will consult the others," he said. "Please wait. I will return soon." Rubber sandals flapping, he left the hut.

Bolan sipped at his drink. Now there was nothing to do but sit and wait. He pushed the stool to a barrel so he could lean back. Might as well wait in comfort. "Soon" could be five minutes or an hour. He was familiar with Montagnard ways.

Bolan's eyes settled on the jars stacked against the opposite wall. Upas tree poison, he guessed. The Montagnards harvested it to sell in town for pest control. Deadly stuff, a doctor once told him. One touch on a wound and a man was as good as dead.

In the space between the jars, halfway up the wall, was the ancestral altar. It consisted of a ledge over which hung a portrait of a Meo couple in full regalia. Ancestors.

Standing on the ledge was an empty jam jar with incense sticks and food. There was an egg, a bowl of uncooked rice, a bit of sugarcane and a glass of tieu. Offerings.

Next to the ledge the paper skeleton continued its rustling jig. Not only was it supposed to ward off evil spirits, it was a good-luck charm for the house.

Bolan stared at the dancing skeleton. Bring some luck to me while you're at it, he told the skeleton.

"Soa! Soa!"

The shout sent Bolan to his feet. He grabbed his gun and haversack and ran out. Dogs were barking, mothers were gathering children and running into houses. On a slope, descending single file, were Tiger troops.

Bolan's mind whirled. Run or hide? He was outnumbered eleven to one.

To run would be to kiss the mission goodbye. He would lose face and the Meo would never fight with him after that, even if he returned during the night. They might feed him and shelter him, and do all the things their sense of hospitality dictated, but they would not follow him in battle. A leader does not run.

But where could he hide? Tiger would search the houses, he was sure. And he knew of no hiding place. Nor was anyone offering to show him one. The women ignored him, busy with their children, the men were at work, and the headman had been gone for over an hour.

The enemy helped solve his problem.

A shout from the slope was followed by a burst of gunfire. He threw himself to the ground as bullets slapped at the houses. A squealing pig ran past him, a jet of blood spurting from its side. Bolan scrambled for cover.

By the time he reached the rear of the headman's hut, he knew what to do. It was the old story: stop thinking and a solution will appear. The slapping bullets had done their job; they had cleared his brain.

Bolan whipped a gas mask out of a pocket of his haversack, slipped it over his head so he could use it quickly, and took off. Geysers of dirt accompanied him as he weaved in and out between the houses, heading for the grazing fields.

The Tiger soldiers went after him. There was a pause in the shooting as they reached flat ground and ran into the village, the huts blocking their view of him. Bolan used the pause to put on the haversack and sling the gun over his chest to free his hands.