The Asian Mantrap

Nine

Pink rays of the just-rising sun coated the east slope of Diamond Head as the Pan-Am 747 approached Honolulu Airport. From my window on the starboard side I could make out a faint rainbow arched over the hills behind the University of Hawaii. The shoreline of Waikiki Beach was backed by a solid wall of high-rise tourist hotels.

There had been no incidents at Los Angeles International Airport to match the misadventure encountered at the Dulles terminal outside of Washington. Willow left me to pay off the cab while she went ahead. She was waiting at the Pan-Am check-in counter talking amicably with a beefy individual when I caught up. He looked like a plainclothes cop. He was, and he was waiting for me.

The name in the identification folder which also held his impressive Federal Marshal’s badge was Towler. He was more a man of action than words. He took our bags and tossed his head in the direction he wanted us to go. We followed him through a side door, riding a narrow escalator down to ground level. A white-coveralled ground crewman drove us out onto the airfield in a maintenance vehicle. He deposited us at the bottom of a self-powered mobile stairway reaching up to the service door in the Pan-Am 747 fuselage. Going up that long flight of stairs was like climbing to the fourth floor of an ordinary building.

Towler led us to a pair of seats in the first-class compartment of the empty plane. “Okay?” he asked. I nodded sleepily and eased myself down in the window seat. Willow thanked Towler for both of us. Willow wanted to talk. I didn’t. Whatever she had to tell me could wait. Even if what she had to say was important, I’d be a poor listener. I’ve learned to grab sleep whenever the chance comes along. I can turn it on and off at will. So I did. I slept through the boarding of the other passengers, the fight attendant’s instructions, and the takeoff.

Sometime during the night, Willow’s lolling head tipped over onto my shoulder and awakened me. I looked out through the paned window. Silver moonlight from above shone on clouds below. Through breaks in the cloud layer only empty darkness was visible. It brought-to mind the vacuum in which I seemed to be working. The peacefulness of the Pacific night was a marked contrast to the violent moments recently shared with the sleeping girl beside me.

As if in response to my thoughts, Willow stirred. Still asleep, she snuggled, pressing lush warm curves against me. I slowly changed position in my seat, trying to accomodate her more comfortably without disturbing her. She sensed the movement. Her long-lashed eyes, only inches from my own, opened. She smiled coyly, then made sensuous body movements that closed up any space left between our bodies. She sighed contentedly. We fit together very well.

Willow pulled back suddenly, wide awake now. Seeing me awake too, she apologized. “Oh, I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean to—”

“I liked it,” I said.

The only lights on in the plane were dimmed florescents hidden behind alcoves in the ceiling. I stood up and stretched. I glanced at my watch. We had been airborne for nearly four hours. Huddled forms of sleeping passengers under light blankets filled about half the seats around us. Willow’s hand found mine and pulled me down next to her. “How do you feel now?” she asked.

Four hours of sleep is enough for me. The fleeting close encounter I’d just experienced with Willow stirred desires in me that had nothing to do with sleep. From the way she lowered her eyes and brought her lips together to curb a smile, I guessed that she was highly intuitive. “Come on, Nick,” she chided in a vibrant, husky whisper. “You know what I mean. Are you ready to hear what I’ve been told to tell you?”

I pushed the overhead call button. A male flight attendant appeared. I asked for coffee. Willow took tea. It arrived in moments. Willow switched to French in mid-sentence and continued to speak in hushed tones. “Remember how Hawk dropped the phone because he was called away by the president?” I nodded. “That was because word had just arrived about another assassination in Hanoi. The victim was a middle-level official in the People’s Republic Agriculture Commissariat — a political appointee not too long on the job. Hawk says there’s a thick file on him, though, because he was remembered by a lot of American POWs. He was a Viet Cong army sergeant and the top NCO in charge of guards at a prison camp where many, including Martin, were prisoners. He was described as being brutal, sadistic, and responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen men.”

“An interesting thing,” I commented. “This victim, like the others liquidated, held a political post of sorts. It’s just possible that a purge is taking place. It’s not necessarily coincidence that all served in the Viet Cong armed forces. Every ablebodied man was conscripted to fight the war.” I took another sip of coffee. “Did Hawk tell you how all this undercover news is getting to Washington so damn fast without anyone else hearing of it?” My only guess was that Hawk had an agent under deep cover on the People’s Republic Central Committee in Hanoi.

Willow destroyed my theory. “There used to be a contact in the Foreign Affairs Ministry in Paris that transmitted certain quid pro quo data received from the French legation in Hanoi to Washington.” I was impressed by Willow’s in-depth knowledge.

“That’s really academic,” she continued. “However it’s done, Hawk is gravely concerned that former Vietnam veterans may be involved in the planning and financing of a secret vendetta. Some members of responsible veterans’ organizations have confirmed that the idea has been heard floating around. What little information has been scraped up suggests that the more fanatic supporters have banded together and are actively engaged in making the terrorist venture a success.”

“I met two of them yesterday,” I muttered between my teeth. “They were kids compared to whoever tried to blow us away with that trip-wire surprise in the hotel. The trouble with this venture is that too few people realize what we’re up against.”

“I’m sure Hawk does,” Willow contradicted me. “He’s disturbed by hearing that nothing will be allowed to interfere with their aims, including attempts with government intervention. While veterans’ groups back home deny and condemn any acts of violence, grassroots sentiment in this case is strong though silent. He now knows that local chapters — some in foreign countries — have knowledge of the movement. Hawk has discovered a worldwide network of endorsers of the bloodletting movement. Maybe he didn’t tell you, but Layton and Wyler are active duty sergeants in the honor company at Fort Myer, Virginia. That’s the elite troop that guards the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and conducts burial ceremonies at Arlington National Cemetery.”

I waved away the flight attendant’s offer of more coffee. He took away the soiled cup. Willow had barely touched her tea. “So we’re up against the regular army as well as old-line veteran clubs,” I remarked. “I suppose the Daughers of the American Revolution are knitting socks for the boys in the trenches along the Red River. Do we have any idea how many armed infiltrators Martin sent into Hanoi?”

Her soft eyes measured me critically. “Would there have to be more than one like you?”

“The way these former Charlie-types are being mowed down, it sounds like a tight-scheduled, get in, get ’em, and get out kind of operation by a squad of spooks with a kamikaze death wish. The targets are being knocked over so fast that, by the time we catch up with Martin, he’ll be pinning stolen Medals of Honor on them and paying off their ammunition expenses.”

“Which is why Hawk specified that we lose no time in pursuing Martin. Hawk figures there will be a lull after three almost simultaneous assassinations. The effort will have to hang fire until Hanoi cools down. Computers are correlating data to come up with a list of potential victims according to parameters which put the already dead victims near the top.”

I stared down into the space outside my window, thinking. The cloud layer had disappeared. The horizon behind us showed the barest edge of light thrust up from the rising sun. I wondered why Hawk would want to compile a future body count.

“Hawk wants us to close in on Martin before any more names on the hit list have to be scratched off,” Willow said. “You know that means we’re going on to Hong Kong, don’t you?” There was excitement in her voice.

“I figured it would be either Okinawa or the Philippines,” Willow seemed surprised that I took it so calmly.

“Why those places?”

I debated giving her my reasons. Two of the largest processing centers for radio transmission intercepts in the Far East were the Air Force Security Service installation at Clark Field, and the facility run by the Naval Security Group at Naha on Okinawa. Both are under the direction of the National Security Agency. Radio transmission, primarily the coded ones that carry secret, diplomatic messages or heavily enciphered military traffic get top priority.

Hawk would manage to put this monster to work. A round-the-clock effort had undoubtedly been mounted to monitor the air waves for a low-powered, clandestine radio transmitter passing short messages to a receiver hidden in Hanoi to aid Martin’s plan. With the enormous facilities and capabilities of the National Security Agency, it would only be a matter of time before Martin’s location was pinpointed if it hadn’t been already.

I finally answered Willow. “Well, I just had a hunch that the next break would come from one of those two places.”

The dim interior of the plane was flooded with light. All of the cabin lights had been turned on. A cheerful voice issuing from the overhead loudspeakers announced our impending landing. It came back on again after the touchdown. There would be a ninety minute layover for on-going passengers. Everyone was asked to leave the aircraft. Following that information, soft island music was played while the plane taxied to the terminal.

The senior stewardess came down the aisle and bent over our seats. “I have a message for you, Mr. Carter. You’re asked to look for an army colonel who will be in the immediate debarkation area.”

My hackles went up. “Just that? Nothing more?”

“I’ll check with the captain if you’d like. He can call the tower again if there’s some question.”

I shook my head and waved her away. Why couldn’t Hawk be more specific? He should have said friend or foe unless he wasn’t sure. I took the pessimistic view. By now Hawk would have been informed and realize the tenth floor blast at the Fairmount was a gigantic hotfoot intentionally planted to remove me from the scene. He was telling me it could happen again.

“I’ll go first,” volunteered Willow. “I doubt if anyone knows I’m with you. It’s one of the ways I’m expected to help. Don’t worry. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

I hung back while Willow walked past the colonel in uniform standing at the end of the rail-guarded aisle that steered passengers to the main corridor. She didn’t go unnoticed. His eyes followed her appreciatively until he was forced by the incoming human stream to change his position. Willow circled around and came up behind him. Her right hand was buried inside the compartment of her shoulderbag that held her pistol. I was too far away to hear what she said to him. Whatever it was, she certainly held his attention.

After a moment, she lifted a hand and beckoned with a finger. “Colonel Tulley, sir,” he said as I approached. I thought he was going to salute me. His hand moved, but only to reach out and offer me a brown envelope. Willow-watched over his shoulder. She was as tall as he. The sunburned colonel’s eyes had a tendency to drift in her direction. I concentrated on his face.

None of us saw or were prepared to ward off the fast-moving figure that rammed between us. We staggered like pins scattering under the impact of a bowling ball. The running man snatched the envelope from Colonel Tulley’s hand as he went by.

The thief, a brown-skinned youth wearing a bright, floral print Hawaiian shirt and white slacks headed for the moving ranks of passengers jamming the corridor. In an instant he would be lost in the crowd.

I shoved one hand against the startled colonel to get a push-start to catch the fleet-footed hoodlum. Out of the corner of my eye I saw another movement. Willow had her leather bag by the long straps. She whipped it around once over her head like an Argentine gaucho winding up a bola and let it fly. The bag sailed like a missile launched from a catapults. It went between the islander’s scissoring legs at ankle height. He tripped, sprawling headlong. The envelope flew out of his grasp. It ended up against the wall with Willow’s pearl-handled .32 caliber pistol close by.

A woman shrieked. The crowd opened up around the fallen man. He rolled once, recovered his footing and continued to dodge and weave through the bewildered crowd. The confused onlookers closed in behind him, screening his retreat completely by the time I recovered the envelope, shoulderbag and gun.

“Keep moving, folks!” I called out, shoving the snub-nosed weapon back into Willow’s bag. “Nothing’s wrong here.” I flashed a wide smile.

No one challenged me. No one wanted to get involved. If anything, those around me turned away quickly and hurried off.

“Neat trick,” I complimented Willow as I returned her property before the astonished Tulley. I kept the envelope.

“I can’t believe this!” Tulley exclaimed. “Hadn’t we better—”

“We’d better forget about it,” I finished for him. It was becoming harder all the time to hold a low profile. Willow’s steer-roping exhibition bordered on the flamboyant technique I had been warned to avoid. “Was the envelope worth saving?” I asked Tulley.

“It rated a motorcycle escort which I don’t” he replied.

I broke the seal and looked inside. Without the contents, I could have run into serious problems. The one that impressed me was a State Department passport. It looked genuine. The booklet with its mottled green cover and gold lettering probably was. The pre-dated visa stamps inside were counterfeit. They showed that I had cleared through customs of countries I had not yet reached.

The other papers were Department of Defense invitational orders issued to Willow and myself. These are special authorizations presented to non-military persons in rare instances. They entitle the recipient to utilize certain services under the control of the armed forces in pursuit of matters related to national security. The privileges are extended only to very important individuals. I scanned the three short paragraphs. “Do you know what is contained in these orders, Colonel Tulley?” I asked him.

“That’s why I have a vehicle waiting, sir. If you’re ready—”

“I’d like to freshen up some,” Willow mentioned. I seconded the motion.

“That’s all arranged,” Colonel Tulley assured us. “If you’ll just follow me.”

We didn’t leave the airport. A sergeant-driver was loading our bags in the trunk of khaki-colored sedan when we reached the aircraft maintenance ramp beneath the terminal. Led by a pair of MPs on motorcycles, the sergeant drove like a demented stock car racer. He sped along the edges of runways and down taxi strips. One took us onto Hickham Air Force Base. From there a ferry carried the hot-tired sedan across Pearl Harbor channel to the Navy housing area. The ride lasted no more than ten minutes. It ended in front of the Barber’s Point Naval Air Station flight operations building.

The drill went like clockwork. A lady marine greeted and led Willow away. Colonel Tulley stuck with me. He waited in the pilot’s locker room while I showered and shaved. A tray of food was brought in from the Officer’s Mess. I ate breakfast standing up because all through it I was being fitted with flight gear. I ended up with crash helmet, oxygen mask, calf-high boots, a brilliant orange flying suit, a yellow Mae West, and a parachute. A green bailout bottle which I first thought was a hand-held fire extinguisher was strapped to my right leg below the knee. It contained emergency oxygen in the event a jump from high altitudes was necessary. I was assured the precaution had nothing to do with military aircraft reliability.

Colonel Tulley escorted me out onto the ramp. He put me in a FOLLOW ME jeep. He tossed my bag in the back. I thought he was going to salute this time for sure. I could tell he was as impressed with this well-planned and fast-moving routine as I was.

When Willow showed up, carrying the visored “brain bucket” with its dangling oxygen mask, she appeared flushed. Her dark eyes flashed with anticipatory excitement. What she did to a nondescript flying suit was remarkable. Mine hung on me, even though it was the right size. Willow filled hers both front and back in a most exciting way.

She climbed into the jeep beside me. The sailor at the wheel had to be reminded we were ready to go. The freckle-faced lad shook his head unbelievingly and licked his lips one more time before he stopped staring at Willow.

I owed her an explanation. “When Hawk decided we weren’t to lose any time, I had no idea to what lengths he’d go to make up what’s been lost. These orders he pried loose from the Defense Department is his way of saying that commercial airliners lose too much time making intermediate stops. Hawk’s brought General Jarrett’s clout to bear. We’ll be using military airlift for this next leg in this wild game of hide-and-seek.”