Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

Siri and Civilai returned to their seats.

“Don’t you think that’s odd?” Siri asked.

“What?”

“It’s August.”

“And?”

“Who’s slashing and burning in August? The point of it is to wait for the dry season and burn off the top growth in time to plant. I know the wet season seems to have finished early this year but the vegetation’s still damp. All they’d get now is a lot of smoke.”

“And you believe…?”

“I just wonder whether it might not have anything to do with agriculture. We’re surrounded by territory still occupied by antigovernment guerrilla forces. They could be burning the land for any number of reasons.”

“Perhaps they were getting nervous about the PL air force with its new fighters. I heard a lot of air activity this evening. I’d wager they’ve evacuated the airfield so they wouldn’t be stranded here. That’s probably worth setting light to a few mountains for.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right. If we had television I’d be the one who wins all the quiz shows. I’d have a new washing machine every week.”

They drank for a while, considering.

“Where do you suppose they’ll put him?” Civilai asked.

“Who? L’Empereur ? Wherever he goes it won’t take him long to realize he’s not at the Oriental any more. I hear the Thais have running water without streptococci.”

“Beds without crabs and creaks and odd smells? Sounds like heaven.”

“He’ll be miserable. He’ll stay awake all night, get his photo shoot done at dawn’s crack, and be out of here before the smoke gets so bad he’s trapped. We might not even get a chance to sit down with him over a few beers and have a laugh together about the domino theory.”

“Shame.”

Senator Ulysses Vogal the Third was up with the unseen sun, although “up” suggests it was preceded by a “down” and the gentleman hadn’t dared lay his precious body on a mattress with such an obvious history. He’d spent the night in a chair wrapped in a blanket he’d brought with him watching the minutes crawl by on his luminous watch face. His personal assistant was a Chinese-American called Ethel Chin who could trace her Chinese-American ancestry back four generations, long enough to have lost the Chinese language entirely. She’d ordered room service for the senator but he’d taken one look at it and decided he’d make do with a cup of coffee and a cookie. He had work to do. By seven he was out in the forecourt of the Friendship overseeing the digging of a pit deep enough to bury the Sikorsky tailplane. They were inside the safety zone but the senator stood well back from the hole. They lowered the wreckage into it and sprinkled a thin layer of dirt on top. And there, Ethel Chin and Rhyme from Time took several pictures of the senator on his knees unearthing the wreckage. This was followed by several more pictures of the senator standing beside the excavated tailplane beaming like a fisherman. Then came a series with Senator Vogal listening earnestly to a group of communist natives: a tribe consisting of Daeng, Dtui, Geung, Phosy, and Commander Lit. They sat around the great white- bell-bottomed leader listening to his words of wisdom in return for an appearance in Time magazine. Rhyme promised to send them each a copy. Perhaps the editor wouldn’t notice that all of the listeners had their feet pointing directly at the American elder, or even that he’d know how disrespectful it was considered.

And Siri had been right. It wasn’t even breakfast time and the senator was out of his sweat-stained khakis and back in his white suit sitting on the uncomfortable bench of the Mi8 with his overnight bag between his legs. He was a man eager to be anywhere else. His smile was all used up and he had nothing left on his face but anxiety. Everyone else stood in the morning mist waiting for the chopper to lift off. But the craft was silent. The rotors immobile. Vogal yelled at Ethel Chin who in turn yelled at Peach. The interpreter nodded and walked to a spot below the cockpit window where she called to the pilot.

“The senator couldn’t help noticing that you aren’t flying,” she said. “Any problem?”

The young captain had been on the radio.

“They won’t give us clearance to fly,” he said. “They say the smoke’s really heavy over the mountains today. It’s on both sides of us, north and south. They aren’t prepared to risk it. They say we should stay here till the air clears. Hope for a bit of wind. See what it’s like later.”

Peach nodded and walked casually to the hatch of the helicopter. She passed on the message with a Lao smile. The onlookers could see the senator’s reaction over her shoulder. It was loud and heated and certainly impolite. Peach stood her ground with her arms folded. But even before the tirade had run its course she turned her back and walked away from the helicopter. The senator yelled. She ignored him.

“Five dollars says she quits,” said Civilai.

“You haven’t got five dollars,” Siri reminded him.

The old pair were at the back of the crowd of onlookers with pre-breakfast coffees in their hands and post-whisky-night hangovers in their heads. They’d deliberately missed the photo session and planned to miss the take-off, but the helicopter remained. The senator seemed suddenly aware that he was being watched and climbed down the steps of the chopper. He performed what some later speculated might have been a polite Lao nop to the onlookers, although others suggested he’d merely been catching mosquitoes. He then walked to Peach who was leaning against a tree. He talked more quietly to her now. His head was bowed and his right hand rested upon his heart. Peach shrugged and the senator enveloped her in a hug the major would have been proud of.

“They’re doing it,” said Mr. Geung with a look of horror on his face. This unintentionally raised a laugh from the viewers.

“In a way,” Dtui told him. “It’s called a hug.”

“It’s love.”

“I very much doubt that,” Dtui smiled. “But don’t let that stop you hugging your friend Tukda.”

Geung turned the colour of a retired United States army major.

“I … I don’t. I….”

“It’s OK, hon. You don’t have to discuss it if you don’t want to. I won’t pry.” She lowered her voice. “But you know if you need to talk about anything-I mean anything at all-you can trust me.”

“Nnnnnothing to say.”

“Right. No problem.”

The crash site was due south of the Friendship Hotel but they would have to carve a large arc east or west to avoid the military assault. Either course would have flown them directly into the smog. PL air force regulations prohibited flying even short distances in smoky conditions so both helicopters were grounded. The pilots were billeted in the headman’s house in Phonsavan until further notice. But all was not lost. Toua, the friendly hotel manager, rode his pony into town and returned ahead of two trucks, each with its own driver and porter. There was a dirt road which would transport the teams to within a kilometer of Ban Hoong. From there they could trek across the hills. Toua trusted the Americans would be able to make a small donation for petrol and something for the hard-working porters and drivers who had very little work to feed their families. Potter assured them it wouldn’t be a problem.

The senator, already exhausted from the physical and emotional efforts of the morning, and wallowing in the trauma of being trapped in a disadvantaged area, opted not to travel to the search site with the MIA teams. He and Ethel Chin would, he said, wait at the Friendship until the smoke cleared. As there was no wind at all, the likelihood of such an event was remote. Out of what he called courtesy, General Suvan said he’d remain at the hotel also. Although Judge Haeng volunteered to stay behind to keep them company, the general insisted he’d be needed at the crash site.