Blackout

CHAPTER 23

Kat Bronsky walked briskly through the door of the aging Air Vietnam jetliner into a wall of fragrant humidity. She followed her fellow passengers through the tropical decay of the airport terminal to the long line that led to customs. Kat stood waiting, holding her passport and FBI credentials, as she recalled Jordan’s words on the satellite phone just before boarding in Hong Kong.

“I’m glad you’re letting me help, Katherine. You don’t want to experience what everyone else does entering Vietnam.”

“That bad?”

“Well, from French colonial officials, the Vietnamese learned bureaucratic arrogance and how to dither endlessly over meaningless details. They polished that knowledge with the dizzying duplicity we taught them during the war. And then they folded in a heavy dose of Marxist intransigence before topping that off with the innate suspicion inherent to an abused culture whose every contact with the West in the past century has been an utter disaster.”

“Meaning?” Kat had asked, worried he might have failed to get her clearance.

“Meaning that for the normal passenger, especially an American, getting through Vietnamese immigration and customs inside a week is a small miracle. For instance, if they run out of ink for their mind-numbing collection of itty-bitty rubber stamps, the country comes to a complete, screeching halt.”

“Jordan, I really have to board now, if I’m going. Am I going?”

“I’m sorry, Kat. Here I am telling colorful stories. Yes. You’re all set.”

“You don’t like the Vietnamese much, do you?”

“Love the people, hate the bureaucracy. You’ll see.”

“That bad?”

“Let me put it this way. If Bethlehem had been in Vietnam, we wouldn’t be wearing crosses. Jesus would have died of old age waiting to clear customs.”

A police officer was waving frantically at the line Kat had joined. She could hear him issuing the same Vietnamese command with increasing urgency as he tried to wave them through a doorway. An Asian couple in the lead had been fumbling for something in a small jump bag. They straightened up suddenly and moved obediently through the door, and Kat and the others followed.

An array of uniformed men stood waiting on the other side, each in a tiny booth arrayed with the predicted rubber stamps. One by one they sucked in the passports and papers proffered by each passenger through a small slit below the window of the booth, examined each in minute detail with intense fervor, followed by a flurry of energetic pounding of rubber stamps before the passport — and the passenger — were allowed passage to the next gauntlet.

Kat was next in line, wondering why no one had singled her out, when a hand clamped down none too gently on her right shoulder and she turned to find several uniformed men regarding her unsmilingly.

“Passport!” one of the men demanded. Kat handed the small blue booklet to him, and he quickly examined it before saying something in Vietnamese to the others. He looked back at Kat and nodded toward a distant door.

“Follow!”

The self-important choreography of the customs and immigration dance had been amusing, but she was relieved when the man led her away from the normal processing arena, through a second, then a third, door, and into a dingy office of decaying off-white tiles and stained laminate floor. He motioned her to a rickety chair next to a metal desk that was undoubtedly left over from American surplus in 1974.

“Sit now.”

“Okay. How long?”

“Sit! Sit sit sit!” he demanded in a flurry of staccato gestures. The officer carefully took off his hat and placed it just so on the desk before seating himself on a swivel chair and grabbing the phone. As Kat prepared to speak again, he angrily gestured for her to be quiet. Two other officers, probably police, had appeared at Kat’s side, their faces deadly serious.

There was an elaborate ritual of dialing the ancient phone, followed by what appeared to be a curse in Vietnamese. The officer slammed the phone back in its cradle and reached in his pocket. Kat looked at her watch and frowned. The officer pulled out a tiny GSM cellular phone and extended the antenna before punching the keypad and placing it to his ear.

The exchange was brief, but among the Vietnamese words, she clearly heard her name, followed by much nodding and the hint of a smile. The officer stood suddenly and looked at her. “You wait now!” he commanded, turning and rushing out the door.

Kat looked around at the other two unsmiling officers, neither of whom wanted to meet her eyes. “Either of you fellows speak English?”

There was no response.

“Not even a little bit? Parlez-vous français?”

A calm, cultured male voice rang out from behind her in answer, the words spoken in lightly accented English. “Not if they want to keep their jobs, they don’t.”

She turned to face a short, overweight man in a business suit with a security card clipped to his pocket.

“Hello?” Kat said, raising her eyebrows.

He stepped forward and extended his hand. Kat got to her feet to take it.

“I am Nguyen Thong, immigration director in Ho Chi Minh City. We’ve been expecting you.”

“I appreciate that,” Kat replied.

“We are happy to respond to the request from your ambassador in Hanoi. He called as you were leaving Hong Kong,” Nguyen continued, “and explained that you are from the American FBI and that you would be the advance representative for the American accident investigation team. They asked us to help get you on your way to Da Nang, and so we shall. We’ve arranged a helicopter to take you directly to the crash site, and we’ve had your bags cleared and put aboard.”

“A helicopter? That’s wonderful.”

“Vietnamese Air Force. You will board the helicopter right here. Vietnam is determined to do what we can to help. The location is around six hundred kilometers from here, roughly four hundred miles. It will take about three hours.”

“That’s very kind of your government, Mr. Nguyen. Speed is vital here.”

“I understand. I’m truly sorry about the circumstance, but welcome to the new Vietnam, nonetheless.”

“Your help is greatly appreciated, Sir.”

He smiled at her as the other officer entered quietly with Kat’s passport in his hand. He held it out to her and bowed slightly.

“Thank you,” Kat said to him, observing the frightened look on the man’s face as he glanced at the immigration director and backed quickly out of the room. She turned back to Nguyen, noting his eyes happily exploring her body in an appreciative manner. She lowered her head slightly, looking at him through upturned eyes as if reproaching a misbehaving adolescent. He smiled and shrugged, dropping his gaze to the curve of her breasts once again before looking her in the eye. His left arm swept toward the door in an exaggerated gesture.

“You are a beautiful woman, Miss Bronsky.”

Kat regarded him with raised eyebrows, her relief at the sudden offer of help eclipsing her natural tendency to bristle at sexist remarks.

“Really?” she said, letting a guarded smile take over her face. “Thank you. Actually, this is just a disguise. Underneath, I’m really just an FBI agent.”

Britta Franz had stepped away from the others to look for a place to relieve herself. When she had readjusted her torn clothes, she glanced up, surprised to see what looked like a path ahead.

Britta could see Steve Delaney moving parallel to her position, following Robert, whose arm was around Dan. Dallas had moved back to encourage Graham to try to keep up. Steve was an unhappy kid, Britta realized, but a smart one. Britta’s initial judgment of him as a repulsive, spoiled brat had softened to an almost maternal feeling of protectiveness. He had tried his best in the cockpit, and felt responsible for the crash.

The image of the disaster loomed up again, bringing the sickening thought of the more than 200 passengers and crew who hadn’t lived through it. The faces of her flight attendants paraded before her, triggering tears. Nancy, Jaime, Claire, Alice — all dead. And Bill! Her friend for decades. Solid as a rock. How could he be gone? She thought of his three boys, the triplets, all in college, and of his wife, all of them about to go through incredible grief when the rescuers returned with the word that there were no survivors.

Oh my God! Britta shook her head to expunge the shock. They’d think she, too, had died! They would notify Carly if she couldn’t get word back. The thought of her daughter getting the news that her mother had been killed in a distant jungle was unacceptable. Phil, she knew, would protect Carly as long as possible from the conclusion that there was no hope, but with so many shredded bodies, who would know? Despite their divorce and his custody of Carly, he had always been wonderful about nurturing Carly’s love and respect for her absentee mom.

Britta forced herself to shake off the panic. Carly would find out in due time that her mom was alive. For that matter, Britta chided herself, the grief for her comrades and her passengers would have to wait as well. The first order of business was survival of those who had made it through.

Britta looked ahead at the trail she had spotted. It seemed to lead in the same direction they were going, to the west. A little overgrown, but definitely a trail. She yelled in the direction of the group, “Hey! I’ve found a path!”

She had just pushed past a small tree that overhung the trail when a half-dozen objects slammed into her. She stopped, puzzled, realizing she had walked into a small man-made web of cord laced with heavy Coke cans. She was completely entangled, but something told her to hesitate before just pulling herself away.

What in the world? “Everyone wait a second. I’m tangled up in something.”

Nearly eighty feet ahead, Dan grabbed Steve’s arm, his voice tense. “What did Britta say back there?”

“She found a trail, and now she says she’s tangled up in something.”

“Oh my God!” Dan cupped his hands and yelled in her general direction. “BRITTA! FREEZE! DON’T MOVE A MUSCLE! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

There was no response.

Dallas and Robert whirled around to see what the commotion was about. “What’s the matter?” Dallas asked, completely puzzled, as Dan told Steve to lead him toward Britta.

“Robert? Follow us, please,” Dan yelled over his shoulder. Steve pushed through the undergrowth with Dan holding his arm and keeping pace. Robert broke into a run to follow them.

“BRITTA! FREEZE! DON’T MOVE!” Dan yelled as he ran, repeatedly tripping and righting himself despite Steve’s best efforts.

There was an answer from Britta’s direction. Steve shoved aside one last fern and stumbled into the middle of the same pathway Britta had discovered.

“We’re on the trail now,” Steve said.

Dan yanked him to a halt. “Don’t move! Can you see Britta?”

“No,” Steve answered, looking up as Robert and Dallas came up behind them.

“Who’s behind me?” Dan demanded.

“Dallas and Robert. Graham stayed behind.”

“Freeze!” Dan commanded. “Don’t move past me, no matter what.”

“What on earth is this all about?” Dallas asked.

“Britta?” Dan called ahead, ignoring their questions for the moment.

“Here, Dan.” Her voice came from the left.

“Robert,” Dan asked, “can you see her?”

Robert looked down the trail, seeing only vegetation at first. “Britta, where are you?”

“Down this way. I’m tangled up in a bunch of tin cans or something.”

“Oh, God! DON’T MOVE!” Dan yelled. “BRITTA? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? DO NOT MOVE A MUSCLE. DO NOT TRY TO GET YOURSELF UNTANGLED, UNDERSTAND?”

Dan leaned close to Robert and Steve. “Listen to me very, very carefully. I should have warned us all not to get on anything that looks like a trail. This country, and this area in particular, was lousy with Vietcong booby traps during the war. Some of them are still here.”

“Jeez!” Steve said.

“You’ve… got to guide me closer to her,” Dan said, “and then describe in minute detail what we’ve got. Let’s get everyone away from this path. Go around it, and carefully penetrate the wall of the trail adjacent to where she is.”

“DAN?” Britta was calling.

“HOLD ON, BRITTA. STAY PERFECTLY STILL.”

“YOU’RE SCARING ME, DAN,” she replied.

“Steve, you stay here,” Robert said, watching the flash of anger on Steve’s face as he released the copilot to Robert’s care.

Robert guided Dan carefully away from the trail Britta had found. “Dan, I can see her through the ferns now,” Robert said.

“Carefully part the ferns, but if you see any wires or anything man-made, don’t touch them.” Dan could hear Robert reach out and rustle the plants slightly.

“I’ve got a good view now,” Robert said. “She’s only about eight feet away, standing in the clutch of a banana tree, her shoulders and arms dripping with a tangle of what appears to be just some old Coke cans.”

“Worst case!” Dan muttered under his breath. “Okay, Robert. Look closely. Are there bottoms on those cans, or are they cut off?”

Robert looked carefully before answering. “The bottoms look open.”

Britta was watching them from across the trail. “What have I gotten tangled up in, fellows? Please! You’re really scaring me now,” she said softly, watching the expression on Dan’s face.

“Stay still, Britta. I’ll explain in a second. Just, for God’s sake; do — not — move.”

“Dan,” Robert reported, “the cans are all connected by some sort of cord.”

Dan shook his head. “And each can has the bottom and top cut out, and each is connected to the others, right?”

“That’s right. What are they?”

“Any one of those could blow her apart,” Dan said, too low for Britta to hear.

“Come on, what are you men saying over there?” Britta snapped.

“Britta, stay still!” Dan commanded. “Don’t talk unless I ask you something. Whatever you do, do NOT move a muscle. Move your lips and face as little as possible, okay?”

Britta’s eyes grew huge, darting all around her as she tried to speak without moving her mouth. “What… what’s wrong? What are these things?”

Dan was breathing rapidly, trying to figure out how to handle it without being able to see. He turned to Robert. “Everyone must stay back at least twenty yards.”

Robert relayed the command.

“Okay,” Dan said, “first, without moving your head, Britta… can you glance through the open top of any of the cans? DO NOT NOD. I can’t see the gesture anyway. Just do it, and tell me what you see.”

“Well… there’s something in there that looks metallic and bronze, and it has something clipped to the top of it. Some mechanism.”

“Do those seem heavy?”

“Yes. Very.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath, his mind racing. “Britta, you’ve blundered into what’s left of an old Vietcong booby trap, probably from 1969. The brown things in each can are hand grenades.”

“Oh, God!” she said, flinching slightly. “How do I get them off of me?”

Dan held up his hands. “Stay frozen! That’s the first rule. That’s called a daisy chain. The grenades are”—he tried to slow his breathing—“delicately suspended in there with the pins pulled. As long as they don’t fall out of the cans, we’re safe, but… there’s a big trip wire around here somewhere and a bent-over tree that’s connected to it.”

“I don’t understand!”

“They were… designed to kill our troops, Britta. Some poor lieutenant would come down the trail leading his patrol, thinking he was taking the greatest risk by being in the lead. He’d hit the trip wire, yanking out the little strings holding the grenades in the cans. They’d all fall down along the trail at the feet of his soldiers, and before anyone could react, the poor guy had lost up to a dozen of his men.”

“Are they still… deadly?”

“Britta, we’re going to get you out of there, but yes. Any one could kill you.”

“Oh, God!” Britta swallowed hard.

“This trap is old, Britta. That means it’s even more dangerous. It will have deteriorated, but the grenades will still be lethal.”

“Can’t I just take these off?”

“NOT YET! We’re going to need to study it for a second. We’ve… got to make sure we don’t hit the trip wire getting to you. Especially now that we’ve disturbed it. It’s sat here for decades without going off, but now that the apparatus has been disturbed, it could be a hair trigger.”

“What do we do?” Robert asked.

Dan was still breathing hard. He gripped Robert MacCabe’s shoulder. “I… don’t know how I can ask you to risk your life, but I can do nothing without seeing.”

“Forget that!” Robert commanded. “I’m responsible for getting all of you into this, and I’ll do whatever I can to get you out.”

The words stopped Dan for a second, but he recovered and continued.

“All right. Let me describe this in great detail… then you tell her what you’re going to do. Basically, it’s two things. First, you have to make sure you don’t hit the master trip wire getting to her. That means slow, deliberate movements across the trail. No sudden footfalls. Second, you have to… cup your hand under each can so the grenade can’t come out. Then cut the can loose, being… absolutely certain that the action won’t cause another to drop. Then you place each can gently on the ground. If the grenade doesn’t come out, it simply can’t explode. Okay so far?”

Robert nodded, his mouth as dry as cotton. He was familiar with grenades and mines and much of the killing paraphernalia that armies used, but since he had never been trained as a military man, manipulating such things was something entirely different. He felt the perspiration beading up on his forehead as Dan walked him through all the things he could think of that might help avoid a fatal mistake.

“Okay, Britta,” Dan said, “now, I’m going to turn you over to Robert. I’ve told him everything he needs to know.”

“Can you, ah, hear me, Britta?” Robert MacCabe asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay. First, I’m going to move very slowly toward you.”

“Please be careful.”

“I’m going to.” Robert stopped to look at her and saw huge tears running down her cheeks. “I’m going to get you out of this, Britta. It’s going to be okay.”

“I… I don’t want to die, Robert.”

He shook his head vigorously. “You’re not going to die. Stay calm and still.” He gingerly moved his foot up and forward in an exaggerated, slow arc, carefully testing the foothold before shifting his body weight.

“Robert?” she called. “Dan? Something’s stinging me on the back.”

“Bear with it, Britta. Don’t flinch!” Dan called out. “But speak only to Robert. I’m here, too. We mustn’t jostle those cans.”

Robert could see Britta’s face contorting in pain. “Is it bad?” he asked.

“Yes. Maybe a scorpion or something, but I can stand it.”

There was a rustling in the leaves behind her. “Britta, are you moving?”

“No. Robert, how are you going to do this?”

He repeated the instructions Dan had given and glanced back to see Dan giving him a thumbs-up sign.

“And if a grenade falls out?” she asked.

“We’ll have ten seconds to grab it and throw it away. You don’t do that. I’ll dive in to do it.”

A small monkey skittered by and stopped to look at Robert, sending a shiver up his back until he saw what it was. The monkey jumped onto a nearby tree and watched him. Robert kept his concentration on Britta, ignoring the chattering of the small primate, which was quickly joined by a second and third.

“I think,” Britta said, “that there must be three or four of these grenade cans hanging on my back. They all whacked me when I stumbled in here.”

Eight feet separated Robert from Britta, most of it fairly clear of deep underbrush. He looked carefully at one of the cans hanging in front. There was something — perhaps a shadow — at the bottom. As he looked, the picture coalesced.

Oh, God, the bottom is protruding! The retention line at the bottom of the can must be gone. That one could drop at any second.

He ran his eyes over the other cans he could see. On all the others, a small-gauge piece of fishing line was still in place, giving each grenade something to rest on, but each line was now taut and running off into the underbrush, waiting to be yanked away. If he so much as touched one the wrong way…

“All right, Britta, I need for you to actually hold one of those things in its can. Now, very carefully and very slowly, move your right hand up an inch at a time until you’re touching the bottom of the can that’s hanging on your stomach. Cup your hand around the bottom and make sure the grenade stays in.”

“Okay,” Britta said, trying to stay in control. Slowly, gingerly, she did as directed until her shaking hand had secured the errant grenade.

“Well done, Britta! That’s one down. When I get to you, I’ll get the others.”

There was more chattering from the left as a small race broke out among the three monkeys. They dashed along the pathway left to right in front of Britta and clambered up an adjacent tree.

“Damn things!” Dan said. “They taste terrible, too.”

“I don’t really want to know,” Britta said. “I’ve sort of lost my appetite.”

The distant sound of a helicopter reached their ears, the chillingly familiar whump-whump sound rising slowly in volume.

“Ignore that chopper, Britta,” Robert ordered. He stopped, his foot in midair, feeling an obstruction. He looked closely, seeing only a vine, and pushed his foot past it to the ground. “Just a little bit more, Britta,” he said as confidently as he could manage. “And then I can start pulling them away.”

As Robert continued to move in slow motion toward her, Britta’s eyes fixed on Dan. Dallas had come up quietly behind him.

“Dallas?” Britta said. “Are you there?”

“I sure am, Britta,” she replied, causing Dan to jump slightly.

“I thought I told you to stay back?” Dan hissed at her.

“Sh-h-h!” Dallas told him.

“Dallas, would you do something for me?” Britta asked.

“Sure will, Honey.”

“If… something happens, could you take a message to my daughter, Carly?”

“Of course I will, Britta, but you’re gonna be able to do it yourself.”

Britta’s face was glistening with tears. She bit her lip. “I hope so! But… I’ve got these things all over me. Down my back, between my breasts, on my shoulder… there’s even one between my legs. Oh, God!” Her body was shaking visibly.

“Britta!” Robert said. “Calm down! You’re going to be fine. No defeatist thinking, okay? But you’ve got to be still.”

“I don’t want to die this way,” Britta said in a small, strained voice. “But I think you’d better get back, Robert. I’m too tangled up.”

“Bull! I’m getting you out of there. We’ve just got to do it methodically.”

Robert worked on planning his next step forward as Britta shut her eyes, holding still for a few moments until a sudden gasp racked her body.

“Dallas… if I’m… gone, tell Carly… her mother loved her endlessly.”

“Britta—” Dallas began, but Britta stopped her. “No!” she said, her voice tremulous but insistent. “Tell — tell her I love her, and… I’m proud of the strong young woman she’s become… and…” There was a choked sob and a shudder through her body that alarmed Robert.

“Britta! Please stay still! Please!”

“And tell her I’m so… very sorry”—she was trying to keep from moving but the sobs were racking her body—“we had so little time. That was always my fault.”

Dallas had to fight back a growing lump in her throat to answer. “Britta, it’s gonna work, Honey. Hang in there. Robert’s gonna get you out.”

Britta was shaking her head slightly. “No. No, he’s not. Robert, get out of here. I feel one slipping down my back. Please! Go.”

“Britta, stop that!” Robert ordered.

“This isn’t going to work, Robert, and I don’t want to take any of you with me. I can feel it slipping.”

“If one slips out, I can throw it far enough away. Calm down.”

A sudden round of chattering and screeching broke out from the three monkeys on the right, sending chills down Robert’s back. He struggled to ignore the primates as they jumped back to the floor of the trail without warning and scampered off into the brush at high speed, one of them running headlong into a thirty-year old cord now stretched taut across the trail from Britta’s collision with the daisy chain.

Robert glanced to the right, sensing the sudden motion. He was helpless to stop the movement as the monkey’s impact yanked the aging release lines from the bottom of each can, leaving the six heavy objects inside free to thud onto the trail at Britta’s feet.

There was an endless second of stunned silence before Britta’s voice cut through the moment, surprisingly strong. “Run, Robert! Don’t argue. Run!”

“Hell NO!” he replied. Time seemed to dilate as his mind raced through the possibilities. He could dive for the grenades and scoop up a few, but how many? Four? Five? Could he find them all in time? Could he heave six away in time? No! Get her out! If he could yank her away from the cords…

“BRITTA!” Dallas yelled. “PULL YOURSELF LOOSE AND RUN THIS WAY!”

Robert crouched to spring toward Britta, but Dallas had already leaped across the path and grabbed his collar with surprising force, yanking him backward. Britta shook off her stupor and started fighting to disentangle herself, thrashing and pulling against the cords. She lunged almost two feet away, but one of the lines around her waist was anchored to a tree. She turned to wrench it loose without success, acutely aware that the seconds were passing.

“NO!” Robert yelled helplessly as he fell backward in Dallas’s grip, furiously trying to break away from her as she dragged him over the top of a large log and fought his efforts to break away. Robert could still see Britta across the path. She was giving up! Turning and shaking her head and mouthing the word “go” at him.

One more time she tried to pull loose, tears streaming down her face. He saw her shake her head finally and stand, her shoulders slumping. She turned toward them and calmly closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before lowering her head.

“KEEP TRYING, BRITTA! TRY!” Dallas’s voice was a shriek in his ear, but it was too late.

“LET GO OF ME!” Robert yelled.

“DOWN, DAMN YOU!” Dallas snarled, jerking him behind the log into the moist dirt and falling on top of him at the very moment the first trigger completed its deadly work.

The thunderous impact of six simultaneous explosions fifteen feet away rocked the jungle as it sprayed shrapnel and vegetation and Britta just inches over their heads, the blast dissipating before reaching the others.

Robert angrily shoved Dallas off him and scrambled to his feet, tears in his eyes, his mind disoriented as he stumbled toward the scorched spot where Britta had stood. He couldn’t believe she was really dead, but everywhere he looked, his eyes confirmed it in gruesome detail.

“GOD DAMN YOU, DALLAS!” His voice, a guttural cry through gritted teeth, partially covered the sounds of someone running through the brush.

Steve skidded to a halt by Dallas, his eyes looking at the torn and ravaged portion of the trail where Britta had been. “Oh God! Where is she?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Steve,” Dallas said, trying to put her arm around him. Steve pushed her away and stepped forward, his eyes scanning frantically to the right and left, trying to find an explanation for the explosion that would still leave her alive. Instead, his eyes fell to the spot where she had stood and slowly focused on the shredded pieces of flesh and bone, and one identifiable portion of a foot.

Steve leaned past Dallas and began throwing up violently. Dallas held him, tears coursing down her cheeks as she tried to comfort both of them.

“It’s okay, Honey. It’s okay. It’s okay.”