Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“Why him?” Phosy asked. “I mean, of all the airmen they claim are missing, why is this man at the top of Washington’s list?”

“Good question.” Peach nodded. “And as far as I can see, it pretty much comes down to influence and pressure.”

“And money,” said Civilai. “It always comes down to money.”

“You might be right, sir,” Peach agreed. “Captain Bowry is or was the son of Senator Walter Bowry from South Carolina. It appears he’s had people searching for his son for ten years. He sits on a couple of important committees and has a lot of clout in foreign policy. It’s probably due to his cronies there that money was freed up from the aid budget to offer funding to Laos. There was a lot of opposition to it. “Why should we be feeding the enemy?” That kind of thing. It really flew in the face of anti-communist feeling. So you can be sure he had some kind of pull.”

“Why this burst of excitement after ten years?” Daeng asked.

“On June tenth, someone sent the congressman photos purportedly taken inside Laos,” Peach told her. “They showed a Caucasian peering out of a bamboo cell. In one of the pictures he seems to have a briefcase or something with him which might be relevant. He could have been in his thirties. He was bearded, suntanned and a lot thinner than the father remembered, but he believed it was his son. The picture quality wasn’t that clear and other relatives weren’t so certain but the congressman was positive.”

“But he wasn’t standing beside a road sign,” Civilai said. “Wasn’t holding a copy of the national newspaper?”

Peach shook her head.

“Just him in a hut, as far as I know,” she said.

“Then there’s absolutely no way to tell where or when the photos were taken,” Civilai went on. “A hut is a hut is a hut. Could be at a theme park in Hong Kong for all they know. Am I right?”

“You’re always right,” said Siri. “But the important thing is that the photographs caused a reaction-money was made available and through just a little diplomatic extortion, this mission was instigated. And here we are, an ace team selected on merit on the basis of all the solid investigative work we’ve done in the past. The Party couldn’t have chosen a finer band of professionals to find young Boyd and bring a little peace of mind to his family.”

They toasted to this testimonial.

“What do we know as fact?” Lit asked.

“About the disappearance?” said Peach, flipping open her notepad. She paused to take a long sip of her drink then ran her finger down the page.

“It was the night of August eighth, 1968. Bowry and his Filipino flight mechanic, Nino Sebastian, had been drinking excessively at the forward air controller canteen at the Long Cheng base. They were with a pilot called Mike Wolff. He was with the FAC, the forward air control, also known as Ravens. It appears that they got hold of some LSD from somewhere and went out of their minds. At one stage, Bowry and Sebastian climbed into a cage with the mascot, a black bear, who was fortunately already sleeping off the effects of a heavy night of beer. Then, about two or three in the morning, Bowry announced he was going for a joyride in his chopper. Sebastian tried to talk him out of it but was too wasted to go after him. That wasn’t the way it was written up in the official Air America report, by the way. Officially there was engine trouble and the helicopter went down in the mountains. Our version is from interviews with eyewitnesses; the FAC pilot he’d been drinking with in the canteen and the mechanic. That was the way they recalled it. Boyd Bowry headed off into the night sky and half an hour later they heard an explosion. They sent out search and rescue teams at first light but as they had no idea what direction he’d gone in, and there’d been no mayday signal, and there was no sign of wreckage, they abandoned the search after five days.”

“If they heard the explosion he couldn’t have gone very far,” said Lit.

“And nothing else until the photos turned up?” asked Dtui. “No sightings? Reports?”

“Not a thing.”

“Any ideas who sent the photos?” Phosy asked.

“They arrived at the US embassy in Bangkok in a sealed manila envelope care of the military attache. No stamp. No frank mark. It was just there in the box along with the regular mail. The words “Laos, 78” were written on the back of the photos.”

“In English characters?” Commander Lit asked.

“Yes. No identification of the sender.”

“So, it wasn’t from a bounty hunter hoping to get a reward,” Civilai remarked casually. “It’s usually about the money, you know.”

“So you’ve said,” Siri smiled. “How did the embassy identify the airman?”

“From one of the pictures,” Peach told him. “It showed the tail section broken off the helicopter. It had the registration number H32. That was Bowry’s.”

“Does the American delegation have the photos with them?” asked Madame Daeng.

“I could ask.”

“It might help to identify the area,” Phosy put in. “Vegetation.”

“Different plants growing at different elevations,” added Commander Lit.

“If there are any locals in the pictures we might be able to identify their clothing,” said Daeng. “At least we’d know what ethnic group we’re looking for.”

“Even the pilot himself,” Siri added. “After all these years he’d be wearing the clothes they provided. That could give us a clue.”

“The weave of a sarong,” said Daeng.

“Just the style of putting together the bamboo hut,” Phosy suggested. “Unique to different regions.”

“Really,” Commander Lit agreed, “there’s a lot to be picked up from photographs if you know what you’re looking for.”

The group was suddenly aware of their American guest staring wide-eyed at the interaction and smiling warmly.

“Have you had a thought?” Siri asked.

“No.”

“Then….?”

“You guys. You’re….”

“What?”

“Capable.”

“Be careful now,” laughed Civilai. “Such lavish praise might go to our heads.”

“No, I’m serious. There I was thinking Dr. Siri put this guest list together so his friends and family could have an all-expenses-paid trip to the mountains. Nepotism, you know? That wouldn’t have surprised me at all. But, you guys….”

“Yes?”

“You’re the real thing. You actually know what you’re doing.’

‘Too kind,” said Daeng. “This calls for another round.”

“I’m serious,” said Peach.

“As am I,” said Daeng. “And it wouldn’t surprise me if you saw one or two other flashes of brilliance from us before the week’s out. Hold on to your hat.”

Siri smiled at this interaction, impressed at how Peach slotted so naturally into a Lao setting. She seemed mature and wise beyond her years.

Corned beef and crackers turned out to be a very appropriate complement to Xiang Khouang rice whiskey, especially with a good dollop of mustard. They refilled and re-drank and the conversation meandered around a myriad of subjects and drunkenness arrived with the night mist. Before they staggered off on their separate ways, they vowed not to rest until they found their young airman. Siri reminded them to use the signposted latrines rather than hopping over the back fence. Prostheses, said Civilai, after several stabs at the word, had come a long way since the peg but were still very poor substitutes for actual legs. The only people not to head off in search of their rooms that night were Siri and Daeng. Siri had tried to leave but Daeng reminded him that they had hosted the meeting in their own room. To be honest, she only remembered that at the last moment when she saw her corduroy working trousers hanging from the curtain rod. As the guests had taken one candle each to see their ways home, only two stunted candles remained on the grass mat. The room was a salon of slow dancing shadows.