“You from around here?”
The pilot didn’t answer. Instead he pushed hard on the yoke and threw the Huey into another sharp turn, descending at the same time. The helicopter seemed to move backward, then straight down, then both together. The skids brushed up against some of the treetops. Red clay appeared before them. The noise of the engine caught up and dust flew in a fine mist; the helicopter had touched down.
“You were beginning to make me think I oughta put on my seat belt,” said Karr.
“Buh.”
“Nice flying with you,” said Karr. He held out his hand to the pilot, who looked at him quizzically. Karr gave him a shoulder chuck and popped open the door, sliding out into the dust storm with his two rucksacks of gear and a long case containing his rifle. The two Marines he’d borrowed from the embassy at Telach’s insistence pushed out of the back of the helicopter, gathering their own gear. Both men were dressed in plain khaki uniforms that did not have insignia, though anyone looking at them would spend all of three seconds guessing they were American.
And maybe another millisecond more figuring they were Marines.
The Huey revved and left them standing in the swirling dust.
“Put two of these landing areas together and you’d have almost enough room for a half-court game of hoops,” he said.
“It’s forward base. What’d you expect, O’Hare?” asked Chafetz.
“Have a good nap, Sandy?”
“Dreamed of you the whole time.”
“Where’s the reception committee?”
“Clearing up ahead, on your right. They’re watching you.”
He turned and glanced at his Marines, who’d shouldered their rucks. The men carried early-model M16s identical to the weapons the Thai forces used — another bit of fussy misdirection that would fool no one, but Karr had decided there were better things to do than waste his time arguing with the Marines’ captain, who, after all, was himself only following someone else’s orders.
“You guys ready?” Karr asked the Marines.
“Locked and loaded,” said the shorter of the two men, Horace Foster. Both men were lance corporals, but Foster had enlisted a few days earlier than his companion, Jason Gidrey, and therefore considered himself spokesman for the unit.
“Locked and loaded is the only way to travel,” said Karr.
“I thought these guys were friendly,” said Foster.
Karr walked through the gap in the trees, treading down a path too narrow for a good-sized horse. He saw movement on his right, then in front — a pair of kids in fatigues totting M16s jerked up to challenge him.
“Heya,” he said. “Yo, Chafetz, what are my words?”
A linguist back in the Art Room relayed the Thai phrase for “hello,” which sounded something like
It had about as much effect on them as buh. The two men, members of the Thai Army, squared their rifles. Foster and Gidrey twitched behind him.
“You sure I didn’t say, ‘Shoot my butt off’?” Karr asked Chafetz as he walked toward them. He edged his hands out in as universally nonbelligerent a manner as possible.
“Their major’s en route,” said Chafetz. “It’ll be okay.”
Another Thai appeared behind the two men as Karr sauntered down from the landing patch. Though the man wasn’t wearing any insignia, he was clearly a superior — older and with a more purposeful frown.
“I’m Tommy Karr,” said Karr in English.
The man said nothing as Karr approached, but the Deep Black op interpreted the fact that he hadn’t been shot at yet as a good sign. The Art Room had sprinkled a vessel’s worth of bugs around the jungle camp before sunrise and was also getting an optical feed from a CIA Huron “Eyes” asset; they’d at least know who to come after if he got waxed.
“Tommy Karr,” the agent repeated when he was close enough for the M16s to poke him in the chest. “These are Foster and Gidrey. How’s it goin’?”
“Commander Karr,” said the Thai officer in a thick accent. “I am Major Sourin.”
“Major.” Karr dropped his gear and stuck out his hand, but Sourin didn’t take it. Instead, he spun on his heel and headed into the thicket.
“Here we go,” Karr said to his Marines. “Keep your eyes open for a steak joint. I’m starving.”
Sourin’s camp consisted of two huts, a large tent that appeared to be American surplus circa 1945, and a number of dug-in positions. He had forty-five men divided into two platoons, with a handful of aides serving as a headquarters or command unit. His weapons were old and had seen considerable use before most of his soldiers were even born. Sourin’s force had nothing heavier than 60mm mortars dating from World War II.
One thing it did have, however, was two command laptops and a supposedly secure connection back to the Thai regional command. The unit’s node had been used to send the E-mails found on Kegan’s system — but did that mean the message had been sent from here, or that the system had been compromised? The laptops used dial-up modems over the command’s fiber optics landline, which ran through the jungle back to the territorial capital, which meant that the Art Room had to wait until they were physically connected to look at them. Thus far, only one of the computers had hooked in, and then only for a few seconds, so the Art Room hadn’t had enough time to completely search the hard drive,
Karr had a solution — a dongle that would plug into the modem ports and flush the drive back to the Art Room via a satellite connection. The only problem was getting it onto the laptops.
Karr spotted the units sitting on a small folding desk next to the briefing table in the command tent when the major led him inside; one of the major’s orderlies sat a few feet away, and there was no easy way to grab it without doing so in plain sight.
An option Karr considered but rejected for the time being.
“The guerrillas have camps in the mountains all around us, on both sides of the border,” said Major Sourin, who’d received orders from above to brief the American “terror specialist.” The instructions included a line that might be politely translated as: “Make nice but not too nice to the buffoon before sending him on his way.”
“The guerrillas aggressive?” Karr asked.
Sourin shrugged. “Most are more interested in each other than fighting the Myanmar government,” said the major.
The Thai officer explained that his government’s view toward the guerrillas varied depending on their exact affiliation. Because the Myanmar government was a repressive regime and, more important, was at odds with the Thai government, groups genuinely opposed to the Myanmar regime were viewed fairly benignly. But some of the guerrillas across the border were simply pirates, preying on anyone they could, and most of their victims were Thai citizens. It angered Sourin that he did not have the resources to properly deal with the guerrillas.
What Sourin didn’t say but what Karr had already gathered from his briefing, was that the lack of formal control and governmental infrastructure in the jungle to the northeast meant that anyone with a few weapons and iodine pills to purify the water could operate there. Four or five of the guerrilla camps just over the border were known to shelter radical Islamists, who though opposed to the Myanmar government, were on American watch lists because of their connection with international terror groups. At least two of these had long histories of violence against Westerners and had, in fact, operated in both Thailand and Myanmar for over two decades.
Sourin also didn’t say that with all the activity going on near the Cambodian border, his sector had less priority than Fourth of July picnic planning the week before Christmas.
“Can you plot out the camps for me?” Karr asked. “As many as you know.”
The major said something to one of his aides and a large topographical map was produced. There were xs scattered around.
“We’re not sure how many camps,” said the major.
“Would satellite photos help?”
The major didn’t answer.
“I can probably get some satellite analysis for you,” said Karr. “Help figure it all out.”
