Ballistic

EIGHT

Gentry’s mind left ancient history in Laos, came back to the here and now, and he looked down at the grave of Eduardo Gamboa, the freshly dug earth dry and crumbled around the tombstone.

Major Gamboa had been dead for eight days, it took three days to fish his remains from the Pacific Ocean, his funeral was the day before yesterday, and already people had defaced the white wooden cross with spray paint.

Hijo de puta! Son of a bitch.

Cabrón. Goat, a Spanish pejorative similar to jackass.

Pendejo. Eddie himself taught Court the meaning of the word that now adorned his grave marker.

Court’s jaw muscles flexed in anger. He did not understand. Who the hell could be angry with Eddie? Apparently, there was more to the story than he had heard on the radio at the torta stand in Chiapas. Gentry had caught a two-minute-long follow-up report about the bombing of the yacht, and Eduardo Gamboa was again mentioned as the dead leader of the operation.

No question in his mind. Eduardo Gamboa was the man he knew as Eddie Gamble.

Court had neither seen nor heard from Eddie since Laos. He had no idea the DEA man had returned to Mexico, and this fact perplexed him greatly. Why the hell would anyone want to leave the United States to come down here and fight drug carteleros and governmental corruption? Wasn’t there enough crime and bullshit in the USA to keep Eddie happy up there?

It hardly seemed like a field trip was necessary.

When Court saw the report of Eddie’s death, he’d been on his way to Tampico, on Mexico’s Gulf coast. He’d heard that a lot of European cargo ships called at the seaport there, and he wanted to find a way back to the eastern hemisphere to confront and kill his former employer Gregor Sidorenko, the man who now, along with the Central Intelligence Agency, was actively seeking his destruction.

But the second news report from Puerto Vallarta changed things. It said that Major Gamboa would be buried in his hometown of San Blas, ninety minutes up the coast from where he died.

Court felt that if he were already this close, just a one-day bus journey away, he should at least go and pay his respects.

So here he was, standing on a rock-strewn hillside a mile and a half from the Pacific Ocean. The steeply graded cemetery around him was covered with cheap mausoleums made from tin sheeting and linoleum and plastic and cinderblock. Amongst these larger monuments to the dead there were less ornate tombstones, with candles, plastic statuettes, and fake flowers lying about. Fat iguanas sunned themselves on broken rock or chased one another around massive tufts of banana trees growing wild out of the tall grass. A hot afternoon breeze blew Gentry’s long hair into his eyes as he looked down at the final resting place of his old friend.

Staring at the spray-painted curses he asked himself: Why were all the people around here so mad at Eddie?

Eddie Gamble was right about the Ban Nam Phuong Military Detention Camp being no place for a man with malaria. Court’s weakened condition deteriorated with each passing day of poor food, a cold floor of sawdust, and wholly unsanitary conditions. His mission to rescue Eddie became a joke the minute he was tossed in a cell with him, but now Eddie became the one desperately trying to rescue “Sally.”

Once a day Gentry was pulled up the stairs, taken across the small compound and into a wooden building, dropped on the floor in front of a desk, and questioned by two Laotian military officers who spoke little English and kept one eye on the full-contact Muay Lao martial arts matches broadcast on a small television against the wall. The men drank fresh water from big plastic bottles to torment their sickened and thirsty captive. They asked him over and over how he got into the country and who he’d come to meet and dozens of other questions, without any inkling he was an intelligence operative of the United States of America. Court gave no answers, just asked for medicine and a blanket and a pillow and fresh water.

Each day the interrogators refused.

Other than a few openhanded smacks to the head, they did not beat him, but they used his illness against him, promising he would get no treatment for the malaria until he signed a confession.

And each day he would be dragged back downstairs, dumped in the sawdust, and Eddie would then be taken for his turn in front of the lazy interrogators.

After one week Gentry’s physical condition had deteriorated to the point where he could barely crawl over to the metal bucket he and Gamble shared as a toilet. Eddie began caring for his “rescuer,” helping with his bathroom duties, sluicing him with water to clean him, and even giving him half of his daily rations of potato, moldy bread, and turnip, occasionally augmented with a small tin of cold broth made with animal bones. Gamble cooled Gentry’s fevers by continually dousing his scarlet forehead with a wet sock and rubbed his arms and legs when the chills came. Court protested everything that was done for him and continually encouraged the DEA agent to concentrate on finding his own way out of the camp.

Court was growing too weak to operate his body, but his well-trained brain had not lost the ability to scheme. “Look, Eddie. We’re probably just a few miles from the Mekong River and the Thai border. If you escape from here, then you have a chance of getting home. But when they take us into the labor camps, we’ll be up in the mountains, weeks from civilization, weeks from a border crossing. If you don’t get out of here before we go to the camps, it’s game over.”

Eddie just shook his head. “I’m not leaving you here, and I’m not letting you go to the labor camp by yourself. You’ll die.”

“I’m dead anyway, dude. You’ve got to concentrate on what you can do. You’ve got to get out of here.”

But Eddie was stubborn; he continued tending to his weakened cellmate and did not try to escape on his own.

With twenty-two hours a day together and literally nothing else to do, Court and Eddie spent an incredible amount of time in conversation. The dialogue was hampered by Gentry’s absolute refusal to reveal one shred of information about himself, but Eddie was a talker. He talked about his life growing up in a small town on the Pacific coast of Mexico, his journey over the border into Texas as an illegal alien, his wayward couple of years in a Chicano gang in Riverside, California, and then his decision to join the military to seek American citizenship.

Eddie had joined the Navy because his father was a fisherman, but he realized quickly he himself did not want to live on a boat. He qualified for SEAL selection and excelled in the brutal training, earned the respect of the cadre and his fellow enlisted men along the way. After two and a half years of pre-deployment training and four years on Team Three, he left the military and joined the Drug Enforcement Agency. His life in Southern California had given him a hatred for drugs and drug dealers, and he worked primarily undercover in different parts of the world.

Two weeks after being brought to the Ban Nam Phuong detention facility, Court lay awake in the dark, sweat chills threatening to drive him mad, listening to Eddie drone on and on about his little sister, Lorita, and how he missed her and hated leaving her behind in the little fishing village where they grew up when he moved to the U.S. Gentry’s mind drifted off Gamble’s life history and turned to the problem at hand. He focused all his attention on remembering everything he saw each day when he was taken from his shack, dragged across the small camp, and dumped in the interrogation hut. It was always raining; there were trucks and jeeps sunk inches into the gravel and mud roads, maybe two dozen guards armed with Chinese-made AK-47s and SKSs.

Occasionally, he’d see other prisoners, mostly Hmong — an ethnic minority that had been getting knocked around for decades by the Pathet Lao, the Laotian Communist government. These guys likely weren’t any more involved in heroin trafficking than was Gentry; they had just run afoul of the local Commies in power and were suffering for it.

While doing his best to ignore Eddie’s incessant rambling — now he was talking about how, when he got out of here, he wanted to buy himself a new Ford truck to celebrate — an idea appeared in Gentry’s mind. He began troubleshooting immediately, trying to poke holes in his plan. There were holes: some he could patch with slight tactical changes, and some he had to leave open. No plan was foolproof; he’d learned that the hard way during five years in the field.

While Gentry’s mind raced, Gamble talked about his family. “I send two-thirds of my check back to my mom and dad, been doing it since I enlisted. Still I wish I could do more for Lorita. She’s nineteen now, a great kid; lookin’ at me you wouldn’t believe how beautiful she is. I want to get her up to the States, but she doesn’t want to come. Says she wants to go to college and find a job down there.”

Eddie paused, long enough to where Court looked over at the rare silence. “We’ve got to get out of here, Sally. I got too many people counting on me back home.”

“You’ll get home. I promise.”

“I’m not leaving you, amigo. I told you that.”

Court changed the subject to follow his stream of conscience. “Hey, you said you could hot-wire a car, right?”

Eddie was surprised by the change in the conversation, but he rolled up onto his arm, smiled broadly and proudly. “Back in Riverside they called me Fast Eddie because I could boost any ride in under sixty seconds.”

Gentry nodded. “Fast Eddie. Can you still do it?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t that long ago. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” Court let it go. He went back to working on his plan.