Mekong Dawn, Page 2

  Out in the street, they walked hand in hand to the car. Nancy pressed the button on her car keys to unlock her little Mazda, a far easier vehicle to park on the city streets than Scott’s four-wheel-drive. Before she could climb in behind the wheel, Scott took her in his arms and held her tight against him. ‘I’m so sorry, Nance. I know how much you want to have kids.’

  She looked up at him, at the mournful expression. ‘I don’t blame you, Scotty.’

  Nancy kissed him lightly and he felt her fingers in his short, dark hair.

  ‘Let’s talk about this at home,’ she whispered.

  ***

  Scott watched as Nancy stepped out of the bathroom wearing a pale-pink satin nightdress and pulling a brush through her long, raven hair. He lay sprawled on the bed, the remote for the little television in one hand and the other swirling two fingers of scotch around a glass. He rarely drank, but tonight the numbing warmth of the scotch spreading through his belly came as a welcome relief. The swirling stopped as he watched her cross to the bed.

  My God, she’s beautiful!

  The thought crossed his mind at least once a day. Nancy had the kind of figure that would be at home on the fashion catwalk or on a television soap opera. Every time he looked at her he couldn’t help but wonder at his luck. His wife was a beautiful, intelligent woman, and she thought the world of him, a devotion that ran both ways. Scott had given up his army career so Nancy could take a job in a hospital here on the west coast, a job she very much wanted. It hadn’t been much of a sacrifice. Scott had practically fallen into a job of his own flying rescue helicopters. Maybe it wasn’t quite as exciting as flying for the Army, but still pretty challenging none the less. As he watched her sit on the bed and tuck her long legs up beneath her, he realised there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for this woman. A pang of remorse and guilt stirred in the pit of his stomach as he realised the one thing that Nancy wanted was the one thing he couldn’t give her.

  ‘You’re thinking about today, aren’t you?

  Scott placed the glass on the bedside table and turned towards her. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Scotty, we’re not the only couple to ever find themselves in this position. There are several fields of medicine devoted to infertility. We just have to decide which one is best for us.’

  ‘I know, Nance. I know we will get what we want. It’s just, you know, a bit of a shock.’

  She nodded and took the remote from his hand, turned the television off, tossed it onto the dresser and snuggled in beside him. ‘You’re right. We will get what we want, but everything is a bit of a blur at the moment. While I was in the shower my mind kept running through things like IVF, sperm donors or even adoption.’

  ‘Adoption?’ He threw his head back.

  ‘It’s an option, Scotty.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess it is. I’d just never really thought about it before.’

  ‘Well, don’t think about it tonight. Let’s give it some time before we go rushing in to anything. Do our homework.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’

  She kissed him on the forehead. ‘Why don’t you go and have a shower? I’ll be waiting here for you. While it’s just us, we might as well make the most of it.’ She tried to sound positive, but Scott thought he heard a hint of despair lurking somewhere in her voice.

  After showering, he towelled himself dry and tossed the towel into the laundry hamper. As he turned for the door he caught his face in the vanity mirror and was shocked by the hang-dog look that stared back at him. There were lines in the corners of his steel-blue eyes, and the worried frown added ten years to his tanned face. Enough women over the years had told him he was handsome, but Scott couldn’t see it anymore. He had a tinge of premature grey at the temples, too. Nancy had told him it added a distinguished look, but her opinion was biased. In Nancy’s eyes he could do no wrong and always looked as fit and athletic as he did the day they met.

  Then he heard her quiet sobs through the bathroom door and wondered if his wife still felt that way about him now.

  ***

  Western Australia. February 2013.

  From an altitude of three thousand feet the hills appeared benign and inconsequential. A few jagged fangs of limestone climbed out of bush-choked gullies and a band of darker vegetation showed where a watercourse snaked down the lower slopes and into the valley.

  Scott changed his grip on the controls as he eyed the cliffs and gullies and prayed the sea breeze would be late today. The terrain would cause the wind to eddy in unpredictable ways and he would need to hover the helicopter as still as possible for the rescue ahead.

  The intercom gave a brief hiss, cutting into his thoughts.

  ‘Looks like the walk trail cuts up the second gully from the right, Scotty.’ Dave Carpenter, the copilot, had several maps folded on his lap, his index finger marking the place on one as he scanned the outside world to orientate their position. ‘Briefing puts the injured hiker about one third from the top.’

  It would have to be there. That’s the tightest part of the gully.

  ‘Why do they always hurt themselves in places like this?’ Scott voiced his thoughts out loud.

  ‘No point in taking a scenic walk if you don’t have any scenery.’ Scott recognised the voice of Paul Barker, the rescue crewman in the back of the Bell 412.

  ‘What’s wrong with a nice walk along a big wide beach? That’s scenic. And a hell of a lot easier to get a chopper into.’

  ‘And the wildlife on beaches is far easier on the eye.’ A new voice, Arthur Stent, the crewman. A few chuckles echoed through the intercom.

  The four men had worked together for over three years and performed many rescues in that time. They were as much at ease with each other in the air as they were on the ground.

  Scott keyed the intercom, bringing their minds back to task. ‘Okay, guys. Met puts the wind as south-easterly, five to ten knots. We’ll be in the lee of the ridge so I don’t anticipate too many problems unless the sea breeze kicks in early today. If anybody spots us drifting towards the cliff sing out loud and clear. If we need to bug out in a hurry, I plan to take us over the southern shoulder of the gully. That’s the lower one by the look of it and will get us into open sky as soon as possible. Arthur? While Paul’s on the winch keep spotting our position. I should have some good outside references, but the extra input will be welcome. As far as we know, this guy’s just broken his leg. There’s no rush, so keep it safe, people.’ They were all experienced and most of what Scott had just said he knew his crew would do automatically anyway. But he always briefed them on his intentions and what they needed to do. Hell, it was just good practice.

  Executing a shallow left turn, Scott guided the helicopter on approach into the gully. As they drifted lower, the downwash from the rotors whipped the higher branches into a hurricane-like frenzy. He hoped the emergency services people at the scene had moved the casualty to a relatively clear area to reduce the risk of being hit by debris.

  ‘Door’s coming open.’ The muffled noise inside the helicopter changed to a windy roar as Arthur slid the large side door aft on its rails. Though he couldn’t see him, Scott knew the crewman would be leaning out, preparing to guide him over the pickup point. ‘I can see the emergency service guys. One hundred metres forward and ten right.’

  Scott eased back on the cyclic, slowing their forward airspeed, angling slightly to the right at the same time.

  ‘Fifty forward now. Five right. They’ve got the casualty in a clearing,’ Arthur told them, crossing an item off Scott’s list of things to worry about. ‘Thirty forward now. Dead ahead.’

  Slowly, Scott flew the helicopter into position over the people on the ground. He couldn't see them himself and relied totally on Arthur’s instructions. As soon as the crewman had them overhead, he picked out two landmarks on the ridge to help him hold the chopper in place.

  Arthur kept up a running commentary for the two pilots. ‘Paul is hooked up and in the door. Paul is outbo
ard the door – and he’s away.’ Scott corrected for the roll created by Paul’s weight coming to bear on the winch arm. The nose swung to the right and he applied left pedal to bring the chopper back into line.

  ‘Come two left, Boss. One left … Hold her there.’

  Scott’s hands and feet moved deftly on the controls. He noted with a little annoyance that their nose was swinging to the right once more and he applied more pressure to the pedal with his left foot.

  ‘Paul’s on the ground. He’s unhooked. Winch is coming back up.’

  The helicopter whirred and clattered in the hover. Scott’s gaze flicked between the two reference points he had picked out, landmarks to help hold them in position.

  ‘Winch is back up. Stretcher hooked up. Stretcher is outboard. Stretcher is away.’

  Damn! We’re yawing right again. He applied the necessary force for the correction. Then it occurred to him that the left pedal must almost be at its limit of travel.

  ‘Arthur? I’m running out of left pedal. We need to abort the rescue. Right now!’

  ‘The stretcher is halfway down. Forty metres to travel,’ Arthur’s voice responded in Scott’s headset.

  Scott picked up a sudden, alarming change in the aircraft. The whirring clatter was still there, but now there was something else, another noise emerging from behind it, a deep and ominous rumble. Even as the noise registered in his mind, lights began to illuminate on the caution and warning panel. At the same time a warning horn went off, filling the cockpit with a warbling wail, demanding attention. Scott felt the controls give a shudder and the helicopter lurched to the right, spinning on its axis. He pushed down hard with his left foot, but the pedal was at its limit.

  As Scott fought with the controls he had visions of the winch cable snagging a tree, adding to their problems. ‘Sever the cable, Arthur. Now!’ He heard the distinctive ‘pop’ as Arthur hit the severance switch on the winch control and an explosive charge fired a small guillotine through the cable.

  ‘Cable’s clear.’

  The helicopter had yawed ninety degrees to the right. Scott could see the lower shoulder of the gully ahead of him and applied forward stick in an effort to reach open sky. The helicopter responded, struggling into forward flight, but the right turn continued, faster than before.

  ‘You got her, Scotty? You got her?’ Dave’s voice, edged with panic.

  The turn increased. Scott caught a glimpse of orange overalls through the trees as the mad pirouette continued. Then they were facing back towards the cliff and he took out the forward input from the stick. The nose swung around again – open sky and orange overalls – faster this time. The grinding and crunching got louder.

  ‘We’ve lost the tail rotor. I can’t hold her.’ Again the nose went around, another full circle. Scott saw the trees clawing for them, and he knew they were going to hit.

  ‘Everyone brace, brace, brace!’

  The tail hit the trees, stopping the sickening spin so abruptly that Scott’s helmeted head struck the side window with enough force to star his vision. He felt the fuselage begin to fall. Debris hurtled past the windscreen as the rotors beat themselves to pieces against branches. The aircraft shuddered in its death throes, the engines screaming with the resistance of the rotors gone. Through the windscreen Scott saw a blur of leaves and branches as they plummeted towards the ground. His hands were still on the controls, trying to fly a machine that did not have enough parts left for the task. The nose tilted downwards, giving him a glimpse of the ground as they hurtled towards it. Before they hit, one last thought ran through his conscious mind.

  Please, God. Don’t let there be a fire.

 

  Chapter Two

  Cambodia. October 2013.

  The truck groaned along in low gear, dimmed headlights illuminating drops of drizzling rain slanting onto the two-rut track that climbed out of the village. Only a handful of lights showed from the ramshackle collection of bamboo and corrugated iron buildings in the valley. Kampong Hnang was not on Cambodia’s untrustworthy power grid and the distant rattle of the few generators still running at this late hour was drowned out by the noise of the approaching truck. The vehicle turned towards the abandoned warehouse, its headlights momentarily bathing rusted walls and a small group of waiting men.

  Malko watched the nearing vehicle with cautious interest. He wore a light nylon jacket against the rain, his hands in the pockets. His right hand gripped a Browning 9 mm automatic pistol. Four other men stood with him in the darkness, armed with old AK47s, assembled from a collection of rusting and dilapidated parts. The best of a bad bunch. If things went well tonight, that would change.

  ‘They are early.’ Ky stood at Malko's right hand, shorter and younger and bristling with muscle.

  ‘They want their money.’

  ‘They will be disappointed.’ Ky’s voice sounded eager for action, for blood.

  Malko didn't need to turn his head to know his lieutenant’s face had broken into a wicked grin. ‘Severely disappointed.’

  The truck climbed onto the broad gravel apron beside the abandoned warehouse, swung in a wide circle to face back down the track then stopped. It was a standard two tonne vehicle, a Mitsubishi with a canvas canopy covering the load bed. The front passenger door creaked open and a man dropped to the ground. Malko noted that he was Asian like himself, probably Chinese if the name was anything to go by, but he knew it wasn’t. In this business names were as interchangeable as items of clothing.

  The man slapped the side of the truck twice and the rear flap lifted. Five armed men poured out and formed a tight perimeter around the vehicle. They all carried AK74s that they swung menacingly at Malko's men. There was a sudden rattle of safety catches from both sides.

  Malko held up a hand. ‘Steady!’ He took a step forward, establishing himself as the leader. ‘Mr Wong, I presume?’

  The short man looked up at Malko, taking in the bald head and scarred right cheek at a single glance. His gaze lingered where Malko’s right arm disappeared into the pocket of his jacket and he smiled. ‘You must be Colonel Malko?’ He stepped closer and inclined his head in a slight bow.

  ‘I am.’ Malko bowed, accepting the opportunity to decline the Western tradition of shaking hands. ‘You have the merchandise?’

  Wong’s smile broadened. ‘I do indeed, Colonel. Everything you asked for and a little more.’ He waved at two of his men and they turned to the truck, undogged the tailgate and lowered it to reveal a row of drab-green packing crates. Wong pointed at one of the crates and the men pulled it off the back of the truck, lowering it to the ground with some difficulty. The contents were obviously heavy.

  Malko stepped closer as Wong unclipped the lid of the case. He noted with interest the Chinese script on the side. Wong swung the lid open and swept his arm over the contents like a TV gameshow hostess with the night’s prizes. Ten brand new AK74s, Chinese versions of the ubiquitous AK47, lay inside the crate, each secured in its own bracket and stripped of its working parts which sat below the weapons, wrapped in wax paper.

  Malko smiled, the scar on his right cheek distorting it into a wicked sneer. ‘How many?’

  Wong gestured at the truck. ‘Another case like this one. A case of fragmentation grenades and fifty thousand rounds of ammunition. Enough to start a small war.’

  ‘I might just do that.’

  Malko bent and picked one of the assault rifles out of the box then removed the working parts from their wrapping. His fingers moved quickly, familiarly, and within moments the weapon was assembled. He worked the action several times, reassured by the tight feel of the rifle’s components.

  ‘It is new?’

  ‘Never been fired. These weapons came from an armoury of the PLA, the Chinese Peoples’ Liberation Army. They were ah… liberated themselves some years ago. I kept them together rather than sell them off one by one. You just never know when someone may need a bulk supply.’

  The rain stopped and the humidity close
d in on the group of men crowded around the back of the truck. Malko placed the AK74 back in the case. ‘Let me see the rest of it.’

  Wong clapped his hands and sent his men to work. Within minutes the entire contents of the truck lay spread out on the ground. Under Malko’s direction, random cases were opened and single weapons selected for closer scrutiny.

  Malko lifted a pipe-like object out of a crate and rested it on his shoulder.

  ‘RPG7.’ Wong moved to his side.

  Malko’s fingers drifted familiarly over the weapon. He raised the sight and aimed at one of the lights showing in the village. ‘How many rounds?’

  ‘Five only. They are a popular weapon and hard to keep in stock.’

  ‘Five will be plenty. You have done well, Wong. I don’t think there is any need to haggle over the price.’ He returned the weapon to its crate and wandered between the cases, stopping beside the crate of grenades. He selected one and held it up to the feeble light like a choice piece of fruit.

  ‘Standard five second fuse.’ Wong remained in the role of salesman. ‘They have a kill-zone of seven metres but the blast range extends to four times that distance. It is very–’

  Malko pulled the pin from the grenade.

  ‘Please be careful, Colonel. All these grenades are fused and live.’

  Malko ignored the caution. ‘You have done well, Wong,’ He waved the grenade about carelessly. Wong and his men couldn’t take their eyes off it. They were all within seven metres and took an involuntary step backwards, opening the distance between themselves and this madman.

  ‘My lieutenant has your payment,’ Malko said casually.

  Wong’s wide-eyed stare flicked to where Ky stood. He and his men, engrossed by the proximity of the live grenade, had failed to notice Malko’s men lined up some eight metres away. They all held AK47s, old models, battered and rusted from years of hard use and abuse, but still lethal at that limited range. Too late Wong and his men realised their deadly mistake. They had opened up the distance between themselves and Malko, offering the perfect killing ground. The AK47s chattered in unison, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness. Caught in the deadly fusillade, Wong and his men fell to the ground like wheat before the harvester.