Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

At its deepest, the pond went down four meters and was thirty across. Diving to its depths was like swimming through hair oil. The three brave divers, stripped down to their underwear, would take a breath, grovel through the mud below until their lungs hurt, then return to the surface with their spoils. Lit was by far the most competent. He could remain underwater so long, one of his dives equalled two of Phosy’s. At one point the two were resting on the bank together wrapped in blankets against the cold.

“You swim very well,” Phosy told him.

“Grew up on a river. I was the one they always sent out to catch lunch.”

“You’re from Huaphan?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m surprised we didn’t run into each other up there.”

“I spent most of my army life in Vietnam. I just returned to Xam Neua a year ago.”

“Why do you suppose Dr. Siri included your name on his list?”

“Hard to say. We’d worked together on a case up in Vieng Xai. I suppose something about me impressed him.”

“I dare say.”

They sat for a while and admired the fog bank rolling over the far ridge.

“My wife was in Vieng Xai with Dr. Siri,” Phosy said.

“I know. That’s where I met her.”

“Right. You know, I was just wondering…. She mentioned a security officer she’d met up there. Someone who’d made advances toward her.”

“She did?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t happen to know him?”

“Well, that depends.”

“It does? On what?”

“On your definition of “making advances.” If that includes a proposal of marriage, then the security officer in question would be me.”

“A proposal. Yes.”

“Then it was definitely me.”

“Good. Just wondered.”

“Right.”

Sergeant Johnson noticed a new enthusiasm in the diving after that point. Inspector Phosy seemed to have found a new lease on life and a new pair of lungs. He was spending far more time underwater and returning with much heavier chunks of wreckage. The sergeant was a good swimmer but he couldn’t match these two Lao. But at one point, neither returned to the surface. The water was far too murky to see the bottom of the pond so Johnson trod water and waited … and waited. He looked up at Rhyme who’d been taking photos of the dive. He too was concerned about the missing men. Not even river dolphins could stay under that length of time. Johnson duck-dived down to the mud. At first he found nobody but after a long frenzied search he bumped onto first one, then the other diver. They were hunched over and pulling at something large buried in the mud. He joined them. His hands found the edge of some sort of machinery, but not even his added strength was able to budge it. The three men burst to the surface gasping for air.

After a prolonged discussion over who had first laid hands on the object, the divers agreed that they should attach a rope to it and get everyone to join forces to pull it to the surface. Rhyme from Time loved it-the ultimate iconic peace photo. An Iwo Jima flag-raising for the seventies. Lao and Americans pulling together. Men and women, soldiers and laymen, young and old. Judge Haeng, inspired by the camera, was at the front of the rope with his shirt off. Rhyme snapped about sixty frames. This was his bread and butter. Sweat, mud and camaraderie in the jungles of Indochina. He already had his tie picked out for the Pulitzer dinner.

Centimeter by centimeter they heaved and their catch edged its way up the slimy embankment. At last it surfaced, a lump of machinery with no obvious markings. It soon became clear why it had been so hard to dislodge. It was held back by some sort of anchor. A steel cable was attached to the machine and seemed to pull from the other direction. The team won the first round. They had their catch on the ground in front of them but the cable still stretched back into the water. They abandoned the rope and pulled directly on the steel line which seemed to have no end. It curled around their feet as the pulling grew easier, and they issued a disappointed groan when all they found at the cable’s end was the cable’s end.

“I was rather hoping for a fish,” said Civilai.

Sergeant Johnson knelt beside the machine and explained what they’d found. He was obviously the helicopter expert in the American team.

“It’s a winch,” he told them. “It’s certainly from a helicopter. It’s normally attached just above the side hatch. It’s controlled by the flight mechanic. Originally, its main purpose was for sea rescues. They’d lower the cable with a harness on the end and pick up shipwreck survivors. But they found it worked pretty good on rescue missions in the jungle too. Picking up downed pilots in spots where there was too much vegetation to land.”

The depression of the early morning had been eased just a fraction. They had a significant souvenir, confirmation that a helicopter had come down here and, as a bonus, a registration stamp inside the equipment that could be tied to a specific craft. They decided that they needed no more wreckage and would spend the remainder of the day looking for human remains.

While the others were unwrapping their packed lunches, Phosy noticed Madame Daeng kneeling beside the winch. He put on his shirt as he walked over to her.

“See something?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said.

“Come on, get it off your chest.”

“I was just wondering how easily these things come unraveled.” She noticed his smile. “You were wondering the same thing, weren’t you?”

“And you weren’t alone,” came Peach’s voice from behind them.

The interpreter was standing with John Johnson.

“The sergeant was just telling me his thoughts on that same subject,” she said.

“If the whole thing was blown to smithereens,” Johnson said, “the cable might have been dislodged from the winch. But apart from a bit of charring, the unit looks in pretty good shape. The winch is hardly touched.”

“So does that mean what I think it means?” Daeng asked.

“The cable was down when the chopper exploded,” said Johnson.

“And how common is it for a helicopter to fly with its cable down?” Phosy asked.

“It doesn’t happen,” Peach translated. “It’s against regulations and just plain dangerous.”

They all exchanged knowing looks.

“Peach, do you think the sergeant might be persuaded to give us all a crash course in … well, crashes?” Daeng asked.

“I think he’d be delighted.”

They invited Civilai to join them and sat together eating their space lunches. Judge Haeng and his cousin slept under a tree. Sergeant Johnson was a very knowledgeable man. They’d covered the most obvious reason for a helicopter crashing in war time-being shot down. But because very few missions were flown at night, anti-aircraft batteries weren’t manned after dark. On the night Boyd crashed there was reportedly a full moon. It was possible an infantryman with insomnia might have shot him down with a lucky bullet but very unlikely.

If the pilot was drunk and stoned as reported, he could easily have passed out and lost control of his ship. Most of the professional advice garnered for the report pointed to this as the most likely cause. The only problem here was that the team was certain they’d found the crash site yet they hadn’t turned up so much as a toenail in evidence. It was obvious that the craft had exploded above the ground, probably at the tree line. This fact was dubiously corroborated by the sorceress eyewitness who claimed to have seen the explosion. There was one hell of a bang sending helicopter parts far and wide, but something other than a mere engine fire had destroyed the surrounding jungle. This brought them to the cable.