Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“Does the major remember what was in his pack?” Phosy asked Peach.

The old soldier was standing in the shade of one of the drop-adder trees looking crestfallen. Peach walked over to join him. Civilai returned Daeng’s belt with an ironic smile.

“Victory to me, I’d say,” he told her.

Daeng wasn’t inclined to disagree, especially with Judge Haeng marching angrily in their direction, once more forgetting his limp.

“Do you see? Do you see?” he said. “More evidence that age does not necessarily equal maturity. Have I not told you on numerous occasions that these childish practical jokes will ultimately lead to disaster?”

“On this occasion it might just have saved a life,” Phosy interrupted. “If the porter hadn’t thrown off the pack he’d be headless by now. There was something in it that could have blown at any minute.”

Peach stood beside Potter who was unconsciously running his hand through his short white hair. There was an unmistakably guilty look on his face.

“Major,” she said. “What was that?”

“I don’t get it,” he said. “There’s no way. I made sure like I always do. Double checked.”

“Was there something explosive in your pack?”

“Technically, no.”

“But in reality?”

“It couldn’t have been the dynamite.”

“Major Potter. There was dynamite in your backpack?”

“Well, yeah. But it was completely harmless.”

It was morning break and the smoky air felt more unsociable with every hour that passed. They’d set up a tarpaulin shelter between the trees, more from habit than necessity. They hadn’t yet seen the sun that day. Patches of smog wafted past like wispy black hearses. In the distance the morning mist was trapped beneath one endless bank of clouds. The team felt like the filling in a dirty souffle. The Lao contingent, minus Judge Haeng and Cousin Vinai, sat in a circle drinking coffee from a thermos and eating some version of NASA space rations wrapped in plastic. They were sure that whatever the snack lacked in taste would be more than made up for if they ever needed to re-enter the earth’s atmosphere in a hurry.

“So,” Civilai asked. “Have I got this straight? The major had five sticks of dynamite in his pack and was surprised that they blew up?”

“He swears they weren’t wearing their detonation caps,” Auntie Bpoo told him. “Says they were as safe as celery sticks.”

“Except celery doesn’t blow people’s heads off,” said Dtui.

“He was in the ordnance corps for the first five years of his career,” Phosy told her. “You’d think he’d know how to make a stick of dynamite safe.”

“He’s a drunk,” Daeng reminded him. “He knocks back half a bottle of whiskey at dinner then goes back to his room and swigs the other half. Then he sits on his bed and disarms explosives for half an hour before collapsing on the bed. Does that scenario make anyone else here feel nervous?”

“I don’t know.” Siri shook his head. “He’s a professional. Wouldn’t he have double-checked everything when he woke up this morning?”

“He’s a professional who was drummed out of the service before retirement age,” said Commander Lit.

“What?”

“It’s true,” Lit nodded. “We did a background check on him. He’s only fifty-seven. He had several years ahead of him. The Americans don’t exactly fire their ranking officers. They urge them to step away from the career. It appears his superiors were a little upset about his alcohol and sex addictions. He had the choice of leaving for undisclosed health reasons or facing a dishonorable discharge.”

“He’s only fifty-seven?” Dtui was shocked. “I was sure he was older than you, Dr. Siri.”

“Ah, but I’m not a slave to sex and alcohol,” Siri told her.

“That’s right,” Madame Daeng agreed. “The doctor could give up alcohol any time he wanted.” She noticed everyone staring at her. “What? He could.”

“Meanwhile, back to the major,” said Civilai with a timely intervention. “If the man’s such a liability, what’s he doing handling explosives?”

“And what’s he doing heading this mission?” Dtui added.

“Probably they have the same system as us,” Phosy suggested.

“A reward for thirty years’ faithful service. An all-expenses-paid trip. The name of a senior officer on the list of personnel?”

“Plus he’s had experience in the region,” Lit added. “He spent six years in Vietnam. They knew him at the US consulate here. I believe he’d worked with the charge in Ho Chi Minh City.”

“Perhaps they didn’t expect him to be this hands-on,” Civilai suggested. “They imagined him and General Suvan stretched out on beach chairs together waiting for us to come back from the dig with parts.”

“I don’t believe that for one minute,” said Siri. “The consulate people have been stuck in Vientiane for three years. This is their first chance to get up-country and see what’s happening. I think they’d choose their personnel very carefully. There has to be a good reason for Potter being here.”

“To blow us all to hell, by the looks of it,” said Bpoo. And with no invitation, she launched into a poem.

The bomb on wheels

Congeals above the road, the street

His gases sweet

Rise up and rot the shield

A deadly leak

Bergs creak and roll

And never healed

Our houses drowned

Profound too late

“Interesting,” said Civilai.

Unable to comment further, everyone else washed out their mugs, collected their plastic wrappers and headed back to join the Americans. They’d spent the first hour marking out fifty-meter grids across the supposed crash site with pink nylon string. They only had the second-hand word from a sorceress that this was where the craft had crashed. Even though the villagers had led them confidently to this valley just to the east of the village, they’d encountered no debris. Still they persevered.

Mr. Geung was walking a little too close to Dtui as they reached their allotted square.

“What is it, pal?” she said, turning to him.

“I….”

“Yes?”

“I … wrote a letter. I wwwwant you to check it.”

Dtui was surprised, given the fact that just a month before, Mr. Geung couldn’t write. Or perhaps it was fairer to say he could write little more than his name, the names of Dtui and Siri, Daeng, Malee and Foremost ice cream which he was particularly fond of. Hardly enough material with which to compose a letter. Despite the fact that they’d been teaching him for three years, his reading was marginally better.

“Who’s it to?” she asked.

“A friend.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Yes.” He smiled, reached into his back pocket and produced a wad of lined pages rolled into a cone. He handed it to her with some hesitation. Dtui unrolled the cone. The pages were all full. On the first line of the first sheet was the word “Tukda.” He’d obviously been practicing. This was followed by what looked like line after line of suet balls. He’d filled every page with them, every space. On the very last page was his name, beautifully written.

“OK?” he asked.

“Do you think she’ll know what they are?”

“Th … th … they’re hearts.”

“Ah, of course. I knew that.”

Dtui turned back to the beginning and looked again. Sure enough, some of the dumplings did resemble hearts. She grabbed hold of her friend and pulled him to her.

“Hug,” said Geung, with his arms straight down at his sides. “Is it good?”

“Can your friend Tukda read?”