'Exact. Hel-copters. Kill my people. Kill my village.'
'They shot your people?' Batman asked. 'From helicopters?'
She nodded. 'Sky machines hang above village. Use rocket. Use machine gun. Kill people, cows, goats. All die. They land then, burn whole town.'
She raised her head. Firelight glowed red against her skin, illuminating the curve of her jaw, her eyes. 'My… my husband there. He die. All die.'
'How did you get away?'
'I washing clothes in Salween, with other village women. See machines, hide. See smoke of village in sky. Karen soldiers come, tell me. Later, when safe, I see. Then I join Twelfth Brigade, KNLA.' A sad pride touched her voice. 'I join. Kill Burmese who want kill all us!'
'They wiped out your village.' Horror pricked at the nape of Batman's neck.
'Not just my village, but others. Many others. You want know why I fight? I fight for children, for place they can live.'
'War to the knife, compadre,' Malibu said quietly.
Batman nodded. His mental image of the typical revolutionary guerrilla was of a ragged character fighting for some political goal, supplied by one superpower or the other. The Karens were literally fighting for their survival as a people, were carrying out that fight with virtually no outside support… and they'd been doing it for over four decades.
Batman shivered at the thought. 'Good God!'
'Yes,' she said. 'God good. He give strength. We kill many Burmese.'
He watched her for a long moment as she leaned forward, arms around her knees, rocking slightly back and forth. The top two or three buttons of her tunic were undone, and he could see a small, gold cross on a chain, resting on the smooth, dark skin above her bosom. It caught firelight as she moved.
Batman remembered Htai telling him that most Karens were Christians. He felt an overwhelming sadness. The Burmese did not have the greatest army in the world, not by a long shot… but they had an army many, many times larger than the scattered tribesmen living in the jungles along the borders of their country. The Karens were a tiny minority… among the Burmese, and among the other religions in an area overwhelmingly Buddhist, Hindu, or spirit-worshipping animist.
'You're fighting against such terrible odds,' he said. Somehow he wanted to help, but didn't know the words, didn't know what he could do, He wanted to reach out and take Phya in his arms, but knew that so familiar a gesture would be wrong. Like Htai, she was not looking for sympathy.
She looked at him quizzically. 'Odds? What mean odds?'
'Uh… there are so many of the enemy. So few of you. Your enemy outnumbers you terribly.'
To Batman's surprise, she laughed. 'No, Lieutenant.' She stopped, laughed again.
'What's the matter, Phya?' Malibu asked. 'What's so funny?'
'Nothing matter, Lieutenant,' she said. 'But you not understand. You see, God with Karens, make us outnumber them!'
The Americana Hotel was a survivor of Bangkok's Vietnam-era economic boom, when the Americans on leave found the city the ideal spot for R&R. The boom had ended in the early seventies when the Americans pulled out of Nam, turned their bases in Thailand over to the Royal That Air Force, and went home. Many of the businesses, from cheap brothels to deluxe hotels, had failed, but the Americana, and others, had struggled on.
The Thais were a resourceful and resilient people, however. Somehow, they'd managed to turn their surplus of hotels, resorts, and places of entertainment into what amounted to a natural resource; Thailand, as it turned out, was one of the very few countries in the area where Westerners felt either comfortable or welcome. It was the burgeoning tourist industry which kept hotels like the Americana going.
This establishment's economic recovery, Tombstone noted as he entered the hotel's lounge, was not yet complete. The dirt was well-hidden by dark colors and the dim light, but the paint on the walls was chipped and cracked in places, and water stains marred both the expensive-looking teak floor and the plaster ceiling.
A That waiter approached, his hands folded before his chest as he bowed in a traditional wai. 'Commander Magruder? Your party is waiting for you.
Please follow me.'
Tombstone followed the waiter past tables and booths, past potted tropical plants and softly bubbling aquariums. A large American flag was dimly visible in the poor and smoky light, draped across one wall. At a table near the back of the room, a small, dark man with a neat mustache rose to greet him as he approached.
'Commander Magruder?'
'That's right. You must be Colonel Kriangsak.'
The colonel gave Tombstone a polite wai. 'At your service, sir.' He gestured to the seat across the table from him. 'Do me the honor of joining me!'
'Thank you, sir.' He sat down. 'I certainly appreciate your seeing me.
I was surprised to get your call this afternoon.'
'Not at all. Can I order you a drink?'
Tombstone glanced at the glass by Kriangsak's elbow, and recognized the heavy fragrance of the That drink known as Mekong wine. 'A rum-and-coke'd be fine.'
Kriangsak signaled a waitress, then folded his hands before him on the table. 'My people tell me you wish to take part in the search for your missing comrades.'
'If possible, yes, sir.' Tombstone felt a new thrill of hope. Colonel Kriangsak, certainly, had some pull with the various That military bureaus and bureaucracies. As liaison between the That and American forces, he might at least know who Tombstone could talk to.
'I fear that will be difficult, Commander. At least until the area is secured from rebel forces.'
Tombstone tried to mask his disappointment. 'Rebel forces, Colonel?'
Kriangsak smiled and held one hand up. 'Nothing I'm really at liberty to discuss. I shouldn't have spoken of it, even. But…' He leaned forward over the table, dropping his voice conspiratorially. 'You have heard reports of an attack up there, I'm sure. I tell you, quite frankly, such an attack could not have been carried out without inside help. Traitors, if you will, or rebels within the government. We must ascertain the extent of this, this rebellion before we risk the lives of more of our American allies. We really have no idea who the real enemy is.'
'You must have some idea. Burmese? Communists? Or are we talking about a coup?'
'Let us say, simply, elements which oppose the current government. In any case, my people believe it would be unfortunate if more Americans lost their lives during the crisis on our northern border.'
The waitress returned with Tombstone's drink. He accepted it, took a sip, then nodded. 'I can understand that. But what now? Are you people looking for Batman ? I mean, for Lieutenants Wayne and Blake? It's possible they are alive, but down in the jungle somewhere.'
'Commander, everything that can be done is being done, I assure you. And I personally will let you know the moment we learn anything.'
Tombstone sat back in his seat. The disappointment was sharp… but he knew he could realistically have expected no more. 'I can't ask for better than that,' he said. He started to slide out from behind the table. 'I certainly appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.'
'You're not leaving already, surely!' Kriangsak looked surprised. 'Stay and have dinner, at least. I would like to discuss modern air tactics with you.' He hesitated. 'By the way, Commander, are you staying here in the city tonight?'
'No, sir. I expect I'll go back to Jefferson.'
'Duty?'
'No. Just no particular reason to stay.'
Kriangsak pursed his lips. 'You know, I could arrange for-'
'Well, well, well!' a slurred voice brayed from close by. 'Look who's here! Our own hero of Wonsan!'
Tombstone turned and saw Bayerly, obviously drunk, leaning heavily against an ornamental palm. Several other people in the lounge were looking in his direction.
The man's unexpected appearance was a shock to Tombstone. What in the name of all that was holy was
