Authors: Richard Herman
“They won’t suspect it here. I’m betting the survivors will be afraid to run into the bush and will stay on the trail.”
“And right into a second ambush.”
“That’s the idea,” Kamigami replied. He walked Tel through the initial part of his escape route three times. Satisfied that it was burned into Tel’s memory and he could do it in the dark, he then helped Tel camouflage his observation post. “Whatever you do,” Kamigami cautioned, “keep your head and butt down when the claymores go off.” He returned to the middle set of claymores and scooped out a depression
in the soft earth before covering it with foliage. He crawled inside, rigged the firing device, and made himself comfortable.
Once more he fell asleep.
It was almost dark when it all went wrong. The man serving as point for the main column of soldiers was not concentrating as he came down the path. Instead he was daydreaming about his girlfriend and the reception he knew was waiting for him at the base camp. That, plus the fact that they were no longer chasing a shadow and hadn’t heard the so-called vampire’s whistle once, made him indifferent to the task at hand. As a result he trudged past the first string of claymores without seeing a thing. That’s when luck took over. He was lost in an erotic vision when he stumbled off the path—right into the first claymore of Kamigami’s string. For once his training held, and he simply cut the firing wire with his knife. But a little success went to his head, and he then forgot his training.
Rather than warn his comrades coming up behind him, the man bent over and pulled at the wire as he followed it to a thick clump of foliage twenty-five meters from the trail. He got down on all fours and pushed a leafy branch aside to look directly into Kamigami’s big brown eyes. Before the man could shout a warning, Kamigami’s left hand flashed out as he jammed the point of his knife into the man’s Adam’s apple. He thrust hard, twisting at the same time, and cut the man’s vocal cords. The man instinctively jerked backward as Kamigami reached for his shirt to drag him under the bush. He missed. “Damn,” Kamigami mumbled. He scrambled backward out of his hiding place while the wounded soldier crawled toward the path, all the time making a gurgling sound like a perking coffeepot.
The man had almost reached the trail when Kamigami got to him. Kamigami bent over, placed one hand on the back of the man’s head, grabbed his chin with the other, and made a hard pull-push jerking motion. The soldier heard the sharp crack of his own neck snapping. The gurgling sound stopped.
Kamigami grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled him away from the trail, reaching the low foliage just as the main column came into view. The first two men missed it, but the third man in line saw a pair of feet disappearing under a bush and shouted a warning. Two things happened; most of the column retreated back down the trail, while the first five men took cover and unleashed a hail of fire. The distinctive chattering bark of their Type 56 submachine guns echoed over the clearing. The Type 56 was a knockoff of the Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle and put out the same heavy rate of fire. The soldiers, all believers in the tactical principle of concentration of fire, sprayed the vegetation above Kamigami, burying him in debris.
That’s when he detonated the two remaining claymores in his string.
Officially the claymore is described as an antipersonnel mine with 700 steel spheres embedded in a plastic matrix. That’s the part of the mine that says “Front Toward Enemy.” Behind that is a layer of C-4 explosive that sends the steel balls and fragments into a killing zone that is 2 meters high and spread over a 60-degree arc out to 50 meters. Beyond that is a danger area that spreads over a 180-degree fan and out to 250 meters. Even the area directly behind the claymore is highly dangerous, and a secondary missile area extends to 100 meters behind the mine.
The five men hosing down the area with their Type 56 submachine guns were simply outvoted by the claymores and shredded. Kamigami was well inside the secondary missile area behind the mine and pressed his body into the shallow depression he had scooped out underneath the foliage. He felt a hot, searing pain across his left buttock as a ricocheting steel fragment cut into his flesh. A cloud of debris and dust rained down on him. The silence was deafening. “I’m getting too old for this,” Kamigami groused aloud as he dug himself out. He came to his feet and quickly donned the web harness with his fighting load, shouldered two bandoliers with extra magazines and grenades, and checked his MP5. In less than twenty seconds he was moving through
the jungle and headed for the first string of mines a kilometer down the trail.
Although Kamigami knew the numbers, he never hesitated. For him it was a matter of tradecraft and experience against twenty-two half-trained and poorly led young men. He blew a long blast on his whistle to give them a motivational boost. Then he really put on some speed, figuring that at least two or three of the men would react correctly and home in on the sound. Six minutes later he found the location he was looking for.
He paused at the edge of the small jungle clearing. The grass was thick and even, almost chest high.
Perfect,
he thought. He listened. Nothing. He sensed a gentle breeze blowing in his face and sniffed the area. Still nothing. Then he heard movement deep in the jungle behind him.
Do I have enough time?
He didn’t know, but it was worth a chance. He ran across the clearing in a zigzag pattern, getting to the far side in seconds. He quickly cut a long, thin tree branch and sectioned it into fourths, each two feet long. He retraced his steps across the clearing. He planted two sticks in the grass as far back as he could reach without leaving the trail he had made. The sticks were about eight feet apart and parallel to the path. Then he stretched a trip wire between them and tied a grenade to the base of one of the sticks. He carefully extracted the safety pin and used one end of the trip wire to hold the safety lever in place. It was a delicate operation, and even a strong gust of wind could move the grass enough to set off the grenade. He moved another ten meters and rigged a similar trap on the other side of the trail. Now he could hear definite movement in the jungle. He quickly moved to the near side of the clearing where the sound was coming from, and took cover.
He didn’t have to wait long before a shadow in the trees materialized into a single soldier. The soldier glanced directly at the spot where Kamigami was hiding, but didn’t see him.
Take the bait,
Kamigami mentally urged. The man moved cautiously onto the path Kamigami had cut through the grass. The soldier paused, surveyed the clearing, and mo
tioned his comrades to follow. Two men followed him into the clearing. Kamigami’s eyes drew into narrow slits as he watched their backs. When they reached the booby traps, he raised his MP5 and squeezed off a short burst. The bullets struck the last soldier in the back and blew out large chunks of his chest. The two men in front of him dove off the trail. A few seconds later Kamigami was rewarded with the sound of two grenades going off. A high-pitched scream cut the air.
Kamigami worked his way around the clearing as the screams tapered off to a loud moan. He heard the man pleading for help.
You got to be smart in this business, and you weren’t smart,
Kamigami rationalized. Then he relented and walked back into the clearing. He found the man still alive, curled up on the ground and holding his intestines in. The wounded man looked up, pleading for help.
Kamigami’s face softened. He hesitated, drew his Beretta, and shot him in the head. It was the best he could do for him.
Eight down, nineteen to go,
he thought.
The sharp echo of three claymores washed over him.
Tel!
Nothing made sense. He had driven the men back down the trail, away from Tel’s ambush. Now Tel’s claymores had detonated. Had the soldiers reversed course and stumbled into Tel’s killing zone? Or had they captured Tel and set off the claymores? A vision of Tel staked out in front of his own claymores as they exploded flashed in Kamigami’s mind. He headed for the sound of the explosion. But this time he moved slowly and with caution.
He heard it first—the sound of swarming insects. Then he caught the faint scent of blood that cut through the smell of decay and rotting vegetation that marked the Malay jungle. As quickly as it came, the scent was gone. But Kamigami knew he was in the presence of death. He moved through the underbrush without a sound until he could see the area where he had left Tel. The vegetation was chopped and torn, spattered with human remains—the work of claymores properly sited and detonated. He moved through the death and destruction, getting a body count and looking for Tel.
Eighteen.
“Here, sir,” Tel said. Kamigami whirled around to see Tel
emerging from behind a tree. His lips were trembling and his body shaking as he stood there, unable to go on. Kamigami recognized the symptoms—he had seen them many times before. Tel was lost in an emotional wasteland, trying to reconcile his basic humanity with the carnage he had caused.
Kamigami knew what to do. “Report.” No answer from Tel. “I need to know exactly what happened,” Kamigami explained.
Tel hesitated, his lips working. Then, slowly and with increasing confidence, “I’m not sure. I heard your ambush go off, but then nothing happened. Then I heard your whistle and waited. Then they came running toward me. I got all but one. He got away.” Tel motioned in the direction of the base camp. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Kamigami told him. “I wanted one to escape.”
Tel’s voice was stronger. “Why?”
“To get their attention,” Kamigami replied. “Come on. We need to identify the bastards. Look for ID tags, papers, personal effects.” Again Tel hesitated, still shaking. “Look, kiddo, do you have any idea what they’d have done if they’d caught you?” A slow shake of Tel’s head. “They’d have tied you to a tree and peeled away strips of skin until you told them everything you knew. After cutting off your balls and stuffing them in your mouth, they’d have used a claymore to make whatever was left of you insect-friendly.” He paused for effect. “Got the picture?” Tel nodded, his shaking gone. “Okay, get to work.”
They worked through the bodies until Kamigami was satisfied they had found all that was useful. Tel was fascinated by the amount of photos, letters, and pornography they found stuffed into the soldiers’ pockets and packs. “What are you going to do with this, sir?”
“Take it to Kuala Lumpur.”
“Why?”
“To get
their
attention,” Kamigami answered.
Oakland
Monday, August 2
Zack hunched over the chart spread out on the worktable. He was alone in the basement of the Annex and surrounded by silence as he worked. He had never seen a map like this one, a survival chart used by downed airmen in World War II, but thanks to his orienteering class at New Mexico Military Institute, he knew what it was. He reread the memo establishing the map’s provenance. The source was good: the archives of the British Imperial War Museum. He turned the map over and read the notes penciled on the back. There was no name or signature, but he recognized his great-grandfather’s cramped handwriting. He methodically listed the dates written by each note. All were in what Bloomy called “the missing year.”
Something deep in his fifteen-year-old psyche told him his great-grandfather was sending him a message. But what was it? Frustration gnawed at him like a Rottweiler worrying a juicy bone. “Fido,” he muttered to himself. His best friend, Brian Turner, had adopted “fido” as his favorite expression: fuck it—drive on. But the gnawing wouldn’t go away. Zack carefully folded the map along its original creases, gathered up his notes, and headed for Bloomy’s office. Another emotion puzzled him. Why did holding the map make him feel so good?
He found the chief librarian in the small workroom next to her office. “Miss Bloomfield,” he said from the doorway, catching her attention.
She gave him a smile. “I thought you were going back to school?”
“I am. But I’m waiting for Dad to finish up some business, so I had some time to kill, and I found this.” He came in and handed her the map and his notes.
He enters a room just like his father,
Bloomy thought.
Was the president the same?
She made a mental note to follow up for the biography she was planning to write. It was the stuff that made the subject come alive. She studied Zack’s latest discovery for a few moments before carefully folding it and replacing it in its envelope. “The dates check,” she told him. “I’ve been doing some research on my own. It appears your great-grandfather never talked about this period in his life because he was absent without leave from the Royal Air Force and at one time had been classified as a deserter.”
A look of pure shock crossed Zack’s face. “That’s serious! Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea,” Bloomy replied. She paused for a moment. “There’s so much I don’t understand about him, but he was very strong-willed.”
“I want to know,” Zack announced. He had never felt so sure of anything in his life.
“Know what?” Pontowski said from the doorway.
Automatically, Bloomy glanced at him. He was wearing his summer working uniform: khaki pants, a light blue chambray dress shirt without a tie, and a blue blazer. A battered briefcase was resting against his shoes, an old but well-cared-for pair of English jodhpurs, a low dress boot with a strap that buckled on the side.
He is good-looking,
she conceded. “Well,” she said, “Zack has made another interesting discovery about the ‘missing year.’”
“I found a map, Dad. Gramps made notes on the back.” He stopped. “Anyway, it looks like his writing.”
Bloomy became all business. “It corresponds with the time he was reported absent without leave…”
Pontowski’s head came up. His eyes were wide and alert. “Where did that come from?” His words were measured and calm.
“Nothing conclusive in the research,” she murmured.
He knew!
she thought.
Pontowski bent over the map. “This could be significant,” he said in a low voice.
“Maybe,” Bloomy allowed, now convinced it was a family secret that had finally surfaced.
“We’ll have to look into it,” Pontowski said.
Bloomy gave a little nod. “I’ll treat it as confidential,” she promised. She changed the subject. “So you’re off to New Mexico.”
Zack came alive. “Yeah! We’re flying the Mentor, and Dad’s gonna let me fly in the front seat.” He felt the need to explain. “I’ve already soloed and passed the written test for my pilot’s license.”
Pontowski laughed. “And he won’t let me rest until he gets his hands on it.” He shook his head. “That’s what I get for letting him help me restore it.” The aircraft in question was a T-34A, a two-place, tandem-seat trainer built by Beech Aircraft for the Air Force in 1958. It had been a family project restoring it to pristine condition, and now it was better than new.
“After I drop Zack off at NMMI,” Pontowski said, “I’ll fly to the World Trade Organization meeting in Chicago. Should be back by Friday.” He didn’t mention that he was going to the WTO to see Zou Rong at the national security adviser’s request.
“Fly safe,” Bloomy said.
Pontowski laughed. “Always do.”
She knew it was a lie, and that bothered her as well. How could any sane human be so cavalier about life and death?
Over New Mexico
Monday, August 2
Never teach your own kid to fly,
Pontowski told himself. He bit his tongue, waiting for Zack to make the decision. He ran the numbers for the third time. They had refueled at Las Vegas and had taken off with fifty gallons of fuel. He glanced at his watch, the best fuel gauge on the aircraft. They had been airborne for two hours and thirty minutes, with another hour to go to Roswell. They were consuming gas at fifteen gallons per hour, and that meant they needed to land and refuel.
Come on, Zack,
he urged.
Think!
He did. “Dad,” Zack said from the front seat, “we need to land to refuel. Socorro’s on the nose at thirty miles.”
Pontowski breathed easier and keyed the intercom. “Sounds like a plan.” Then the father in him took over. “The outside air temperature is pushing a hundred, so carry a little extra airspeed coming down final. Full flaps.”
“Got it, Pop.”
Pop!
Pontowski thought. Was there condescension in his son’s voice? He didn’t know. Then he laughed out loud.
“We might have to stay overnight to take off in the morning,” Zack said.
“Why?” Pontowski asked, knowing the answer.
“Well, the field elevation is almost five thousand feet, and the temperature has got to be over a hundred on the ground. I haven’t calculated the density altitude, but it’s gonna be high. It’s safer to take off in the morning.”
“Make a decision,” Pontowski said.
“How do you like Mexican food?” Zack replied.
“Love it,” Pontowski said, meaning that he really loved the chance to spend some time with his son. The World Trade Conference and Zou Rong could wait another day. Zack flew a standard pattern into the airfield and came down final at eighty knots. He flared and made a sweet touchdown. “Beginner’s luck,” Pontowski grouched.
The amount of food Zack consumed amazed Pontowski, and the dark-haired teenage girl serving them was more than happy to keep his son’s plate full. “I think you’ve got an admirer,” Pontowski conceded. “She’s pretty enough.”
Zack’s reply surprised him. “Dad, do you really think Gramps went AWOL?”
Pontowski thought for a moment. “I can see him doing it.”
“Why?”
“We’ll probably never know for sure, but that’s the way your great-grandfather was. Once he decided to do something, he did it. But knowing him, you can bet it was for a damn good reason. He put principle above everything else.” Zack shoveled more food into his mouth. “If you eat like this at NMMI, I’m getting one hell of a bargain on room and board.”
Zack nodded as the girl brought out another plate of tamales. “Bloomy said Gramps was a very strong-willed man.”
“When he believed in something,” Pontowski said, “the strongest. It was his best trait. I wouldn’t want to get in his way when he set out to do something.”
“I hope I can be like that,” Zack said quietly.
I hope so, too,
Pontowski thought, hearing the resolve in his son’s voice.
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Wednesday, August 4
The cabdriver turned onto Tun Razak and pulled over to the curb. He pointed across the busy boulevard. “That’s the American embassy,” he said in Malay. “The police won’t allow me to stop in front.” Kamigami got out and stretched while the driver opened the trunk. “Bags extra,” the driver said to Tel. “Twenty dollars U.S.”
Tel protested. “You said twenty ringgit.” He looked at Kamigami. “That’s what he said at the hotel.”
“Twenty dollars U.S. or no bags,” the driver barked. Kamigami shrugged and shouldered the driver aside. He
lifted two of the duffel bags out of the trunk. “I call police!” the driver shouted. He reached to close the trunk lid on the two remaining bags.
Kamigami brushed the driver back like a fly and dropped one of the heavy bags on his foot. The driver bent over in pain. “Twenty ringgit or I drop the other one on your head,” Kamigami said in Malay. The driver looked up into Kamigami’s face and, before Tel could hand over the money, hobbled down the sidewalk as fast as he could, abandoning his cab and forgetting about collecting the fare. Kamigami picked up the two heaviest bags and motioned for Tel to get the two others, which were still in the trunk. “I expect the guard will stop us at the entrance. Just do what they say until I can get it sorted out.”
“I thought you said they know you,” Tel said.
“They may not remember me,” Kamigami said. They dodged a few cars crossing the street, and Kamigami led the way to the Marine guard. They deposited the four bags at the corporal’s feet, and Kamigami gave him a friendly smile. “My name is Victor Kamigami. I’m an American. These are for Mr. William Mears. I believe he’s still here, an administrative officer, if I remember correctly.”
Kamigami’s soft, high-pitched voice surprised the guard. “Please wait over there,” he said, pointing to a spot closer to the street. “And please take your bags with you.” He keyed his radio while Kamigami and Tel moved back. “Two individuals, one who claims to be an American citizen, are here with four duffel bags for Mr. Mears.” It was common knowledge inside the embassy that William Mears was the CIA chief of station. The guard gave Kamigami a questioning look as he listened to the reply. “He said his name is Victor Kamigami.”
“You might not want to stand too close to me,” Kamigami said in a low voice. Tel obediently moved a few feet away, not understanding why. He discovered the wisdom of the request a few seconds later when a large unmarked van drove up, slammed to a stop, and a tactical squad of Malay police in full battle gear burst out the side and rear doors.
“Down!” the Marine guard shouted. “On the ground!
Spread-eagle!” His automatic was out and leveled directly at Kamigami. Tel fell to the ground. He was amazed that Kamigami was already down and spread-eagle. He looked at Kamigami in confusion.
“I guess they remember me,” Kamigami allowed.
“Gentlemen,” the Marine guard said, “the Ambassador.” He stepped aside as Winslow James minced into the basement room of the embassy. He nodded at the two CIA agents, William Mears and Charles Robertson, and surveyed the weapons and other items spread around the room. “Well, well, what do we have here?”
“Sir,” Mears said, “this is Victor Kamigami.” He read from his clipboard. “Twenty-four years in the U.S. Army, all of it in the Rangers and special operations. Reached the rank of command sergeant major before deserting and fighting as a mercenary for Zou Rong in southern China in…ah, 1996. After that he went into hiding on the east coast near…”
“Near Kemasik,” Kamigami said. “Terengganu Province. Mr. Ambassador, may I present Tel Zaidan? He and I were the only survivors when our kampong was destroyed.”
Winslow James nodded in gracious acceptance, always the polished diplomat. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Zaidan.” A concerned look spread across his face. “I must apologize, for I haven’t heard of the tragedy that befell your village.” Mears and Robertson exchanged glances. It had been included in the daily intelligence summary that was placed on the ambassador’s desk every morning. The ambassador looked at the two CIA agents, effectively dismissing Kamigami and Tel. “I take it that you know Mr. Kamigami?”
“We’ve met,” Robertson, the junior CIA agent, said. Robertson instinctively felt the scar on his neck, the result of their first meeting when Kamigami had jabbed his fingers into Robertson’s neck and crushed his larynx. Only the quick action of May May, Kamigami’s wife, had saved him from suffocating.
Kamigami couldn’t help himself. “The last time we saw
each other, Chuck and Bill were hanging around in Singapore.” The two CIA agents had been transporting Kamigami to Singapore for extradition to the States when he escaped. In the process Kamigami had handcuffed them together and left them dangling from a bridge railing.
“I see,” James said, not understanding at all. “And what do we have here?”
“We took these off soldiers in the National Park,” Kamigami said. “They were operating out of a large base camp and were from the same group that destroyed our kampong.”
“Do we know anything about this so-called base camp?” James asked. No answer from the CIA agents. James rummaged through the uniforms, ID tags, and papers on the table. He glanced at the weapons stacked against the wall. “It appears they were well armed.” He picked up a pair of boots and examined them.
“They were Chinese regulars,” Kamigami said.
James’s reaction was immediate. “Because they were wearing these? Nonsense.” He turned for the door. “Please dispose of this,” he told Mears. Then he was gone.
Mears and Robertson stared at each other. They would never admit to an outsider that the ambassador refused to believe anything that ran counter to current State Department policy with regard to Malaysia. “The official position is that we’re seeing an indigenous political faction of farmers dissatisfied with the current regime,” Mears said.
“If that’s dissatisfaction,” Kamigami said, “you don’t want to be around when they get angry.”
Mears took a deep breath. “You better tell us everything you know.” He listened while Kamigami detailed all he had learned. A heavy silence came down in the room. “This is not a disgruntled bunch of farmers,” Mears finally said. He made a decision. “You need to talk to Gus.”