Silent Vengeance

Chapter 12

About 200 yards from where the shacks once stood, a creek branched off, flowing southeast, the same creek as the drugs were transported on. Fifty yards down the narrow waterway, a wooden boat was tied to a fully matured bamboo stem (culm).

Sonny Holcomb had stayed out of sight for over an hour. There was always a possibility the chopper would return. While choppers weren't the norm for Burma in its ongoing struggle for control of the government, gunfire and explosions were, as the regular army battled rebels.

What was it that made him decide to visit the prostitute, Kyi, last night? He'd been with her co-worker only three days ago. That should have satisfied him. But if he'd returned a half hour sooner, or never gone in the first place, he might now be dead.

He tried to sort out reasons for what happened, tried to understand. Whether or not there was still danger, he had to go investigate.

Drawing the revolver from its holster, he began walking cautiously through the forest, while he thought back to when he was maneuvering his boat along the creek earlier that morning.

He'd heard the sound of a chopper, immediately followed by a horrific explosion. Not long after, the distinct sound of a machine gun. He'd hastily rowed to shore, then pulled the boat under some brush. There he remained until it grew quiet. When he thought it was clear, he cautiously headed toward a secure location, well within the forest, just in case the chopper returned.

But that was earlier. This was now. He knelt down behind some brush, staring in disbelief. The shacks were gone. Boats were gone. Bridge destroyed. Broken, jagged pieces of support poles stuck out of the water. The force of the explosion had hurled debris across the waterway, now scattered up and down the shoreline. Everything — gone, all blown to fucking hell.

Suddenly, something caught his attention. Movement. The guards? Myint? Straining his eyes, he spotted several men, none he expected to see, all dressed in camies. And who else? Kids? They could only be the ones who worked for Myint! Something wasn't adding up.

A familiar noise made him duck for cover. Another chopper! Was it the same one? Was someone returning to confirm everything had been destroyed, or looking for survivors? But the men across the waterway seemed to be waiting for this one, signaling as it flew closer.

Coming from the north, it swooped down, then hovered. On the fuselage was the word "Navy" and a "Star and Bar" symbol, used on all U.S. military aircraft: horizontal red stripe, centered on a white horizontal baron either side of a white star, outlined with a blue border.

"A fuckin' Navy chopper!" he mumbled, swiping a hand over the top of his head. "Navy chopper." The men now being rescued were probably on the hunt for him. His brow furrowed. But why the hell would they hunt for him over some pills? And how did they find the shacks? "Only two possibilities," he grunted. NSA or CIA had been listening. He looked overhead. "Satellites." Somewhere along the line he'd fucked up, and had gotten careless.

He continued watching as the pilot maneuvered his aircraft, descending slowly until it was no more than 10 to 15 feet above the water, then he brought it closer to the shoreline. Holcomb's eyes never left the entire process as men and boys were hoisted into the cargo bay. Then, it was over. The chopper's nose dipped as the pilot pushed the stick forward. Within less than two minutes, Holcomb found himself completely alone.

Heading back to the boat, his newest concern was who the fuck was in the other chopper, the one that destroyed his operation? Who was out to kill him? There was no way in hell his supplier would turn against him, not with the money he was making. Then again, anything was possible. Yet, where the hell would Quibin get a chopper?

Names and faces flashed through his mind. He eliminated some, questioned others. Banyon? "Not possible!" Banyon had a good thing going, and without all the responsibility. His only job was to see that the drugs got to their destinations.

He untied the boat, shoved it into the creek, then climbed in. With a slow-moving current, he only had to use the paddle as a rudder, giving him more time to unravel his thoughts. But thinking only added to his confusion and anger. He'd lost years of work and years of income within less than an hour. Slapping the paddle hard against the water, he spit out with rage, "Fuck!" His comfortable way of life had suddenly turned to shit.

Fifteen minutes later he maneuvered the boat parallel to a hundred foot pier, made from rough cut planks. Grabbing hold of splintered board, he pulled the boat closer, tying it off at its bow then stern.

Hoisting himself onto the pier, he hesitated briefly, as he cast his eyes toward the forest. He had his work cut out for him. It might take time and miles, but he'd eventually resolve all his questions.

He started walking toward the village, and glanced at his watch, wondering if Banyon made the delivery in Dawei. With the short wave probably at the bottom of the waterway, he lost the means to make contact, so he'd just have to wait. He wondered if he could convince the former Army sergeant to join him in the hunt. But with what was at stake, neither of them would have a choice, especially if they wanted to ensure they weren't the ones being hunted.

Startup of drug production would have to wait, but somehow — somewhere — it would restart. Yaba had become their lifeblood.