Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“It’s cold up here,” said Daeng.

“We should huddle together for warmth,” Siri suggested.

Siri’s attempts at blowing out the candle flames left him coughing and wheezing.

“That’s not a very promising sign for huddling,” said Daeng.

“I’ll be fine. It only happens when I exhale violently. I’m rather good at inhaling.”

He licked his fingers, pinched, and the last flame died. The room could have been draped in black velvet, so rich was the darkness. They skirted the island of bottles and glasses and made their way to the bed. As was his habit, Siri took the window side. The bed was covered with a quilt so thick that he almost needed a tire lever to lift it and insert himself underneath. He reached for his wife.

“My goodness, you aren’t cold at all,” he said.

“Patience. I’ll be with you in a few seconds,” she replied.

To his surprise, her voice had come not from the bed but from several meters away.

“Oh dear.”

Siri extricated himself from the quilt as quickly as he was able.

“What’s wrong?” Daeng asked.

“Do we have a flashlight in the bags?”

“Of course.”

“Then we should turn it on. I think I may have just been unfaithful to you.”

After a good deal of searching Daeng unearthed the lamp and shone the beam on a lump in the bed covers.

“Who on earth…?” asked Daeng.

“Well, I tell you it certainly isn’t one of the men.”

He heaved off the quilt and there, sleeping like the dead, was Peach Short.

“Siri?”

“I didn’t know. Honestly.”

“Couples have been divorced over less.”

“I thought she was you.”

“When exactly did you realize she wasn’t … no, perhaps you shouldn’t answer that. We should take her to her room. She has a big day tomorrow.”

“She looks so peaceful. Perhaps we should let her….”

“Siri!”

“That was a joke, my dearest.”

Despite all the lugging and manhandling and door opening and laying out, Peach didn’t awaken from her drunken slumber when they sent her home. But by the time they got back to their room, Siri and Daeng were completely tuckered out. The only sound as they held hands under the covers was of their chests rising and falling. A new adventure was about to begin. The only thing certain about tomorrow was that their young American interpreter was going to have a very serious hangover.

The knock on the door might as well have been directly on the inside of Siri’s head. Somebody was in his skull with a wrecking ball trying to get out. The groan from Daeng’s side of the bed told him that she wasn’t faring any better. If it was morning, the day was doing its damnedest not to show it. An early mist had oozed in through the open window and was swirling around the bed like dry ice. In the distance could be heard the thump of artillery fire as the joint Vietnamese/Lao forces began their daylight offensive against the last stubborn pocket of Hmong resistance at the Phu Bia mountain. While the Americans slept soundly in their beds, their discarded allies fought for their lives. The sound was the only sign that dawn had officially cracked. The knocking continued.

“Go away,” said Siri, both to the hangover and the unwanted visitor.

“That rice whiskey…?” said Daeng with a voice like a shovel through pebbles.

“I forgot to mention the day after,” Siri confessed.

“I feel like….”

“Me too.”

“Was that a knock at the door or my eyelids banging together?”

Siri shuddered as he left the warmth of the quilt and quick-stepped across the cold floor to the door. Peach stood in the doorway with a massive smile on her face.

“Morning, Doctor,” she said brightly and slid past Siri into the room. “I was gonna bring you doughnuts and coffee but the nearest deli’s nine hundred kilometers away.”

Daeng peered over the quilt.

“How on earth can you be this jolly?” she asked. “You were paralytic last night.”

“I have a missionary’s constitution. We get back on our feet really fast.”

“Do you … er, remember anything about last night?” Siri asked.

“Absolutely,” she smiled.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. I remember taking a quick nap on your bed then waking up in my own. I guess showing off with fuel-injected rice whiskey isn’t such a smart idea. Who…?”

“Me and the doctor,” said Daeng, unburdening herself of the bedcover.

“Well, I appreciate it.”

“All part of the service. To what do we owe this wake-up call?”

“Orientation. Remember?” I told you I’d warn you what to expect at the start of each day? She opened her notebook. “OK, today will begin with the ‘Getting to know you’ breakfast at seven thirty. Once we all know each other we fly off to Long Cheng.”

“Because?” Daeng asked.

“I guess because that was the last place anyone saw Boyd Bowry alive.”

“And they think they might have misplaced him in a cupboard somewhere?”

“I doubt there are any cupboards left,” Siri said. “I get the impression there isn’t much remaining of the original outpost. Lost to mother nature and pillaging once the place was overrun, so they tell me.”

“Maybe so,” said Peach, “but, for whatever reason, that’s where the surrounding villagers have been told to assemble with their war booty. You’ve heard the heavy artillery? It means we have to take a very circuitous route to avoid the hostilities. It should take over an hour to get to good old Spook City. The task force sets up a base camp there and we go through the stories and evidence until we get a plausible lead. Then we head off to investigate.”

“I assume we’ll have a packed lunch?” asked Daeng, massaging her temples with her thumbs.

“I don’t think we’ll need to worry about food on this entire trip, Madame Daeng,” Peach laughed. “The chopper that brought us here could barely lift off from the weight of the provisions. They had the team all squashed up at the front. ‘Leave not one can of spam behind’ was the call.”

“And everyone on the list turned up?” Siri asked.

“Pretty much. Senator Vogal and his secretary Miss Chin are on standby.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it means he may not come. But they still needed to get official permission for the both of them, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Success. If we rescue the pilot or we find his remains, he’ll show his face up here. Right now he’s slumming it at the Oriental in Bangkok for the five days of the mission. If he gets news of a breakthrough, they’ll fly him in. He’ll pose for pictures, shake a lot of hands, give quotes to the press. There’ll be maximum exposure back home. Headlines. I doubt he’ll stay here overnight. They’ll fly him back to civilization the same day and he can go home. Job done.”

“And why should he be involved at all?” Daeng asked.

“Well, he’s big on the MIA lobby, for one. If they find a live one there’s a lot of bucks to be had to keep looking. It’s a sensitive issue in Washington. Big political strides to be made by supporting the vets, and, in turn, the military. And, two, he’s Senator Bowry’s best pal. Their kids played together. He knew Boyd. The family want him over here keeping tabs on the investigation.”

“But he doesn’t want to roll up his sleeves and help us dig,” Siri remarked.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Peach. “He’s in Bangkok. If you’re on your recliner TV chair in the States that’s every bit as good as being in the Lao jungle. “Senator Ulysses Vogal the third is in Southeast Asia supervising an MIA joint force mission.” Good line. Nobody questions whether he’s in the sweaty forests of northern Laos or doing cocktails in the lounge. Just the word “Asia” is scary enough over there. He’ll be a hero. If we find Boyd it’ll be his photo on the front page of the Post with his arm around the young man, sweat stains around his armpits. You and your team won’t so much as crack a mention. “Local diggers” they’ll call you.”