The Asian Mantrap

Ten

The aircraft parked in a secluded corner of the airfield was unlike any other in the world. The huge, black monster was guarded by two rifle-armed marines wearing battle fatigues. I recognized the futuristic, needle-nosed machine. It was built almost entirely of titanium by Lockheed. The air force called it the SR-71A. The fuselage was twice as long as its mere fifty foot wingspan. Two immense and powerful turbojet engines made it the fastest, highest-flying aircraft to be put in service. Its cruising speed was well above 2,000 miles per hour when it was flying at 85,000 feet.

“We’re going to fly in that?” exclaimed Willow incredulously. “What is it?”

I told her that the plane, known as the Blackbird, was an unarmed reconnaissance craft that held every conceivable flight performance record of speed and altitude. It had made a New York to London ran in less than two hours, averaging 1,807 miles an hour.

Our pilot was Major Griffiths who appeared bored with the whole proceedings. He and an enlisted man helped Willow and I cram into a space behind the pilot which had been jury-rigged to accomodate both of us in tight tandem. Some camera and electronic equipment had been removed, but not nearly enough to provide any real comfort.

I sat in front of Willow. Her long legs stretched forward on either side of the narrow bucket seat strapped to my butt. With the padded, close-fitting helmet clamped over my head, I barely heard the starting rumble of the engines turning over. The sound grew louder during the taxi run. The end of the long runway backed up against a salt-white beach holding back a lazy Pacific surf.

The sudden acceleration jammed me back in my seat. When the afterburner cut in to give added power, I thought I would go deaf. The noise outside behind the plane must have been horrendous.

As I felt the plane lightening, Major Griffiths started the acrobatics of a high performance climb. My seat rotated and tilted until I was mostly laying on my back. Only a rocket being launched for the outer reaches of space would climb at a steeper angle.

We gazed straight up while G-forces held us fast. Then the aircraft leveled out. Major Griffiths moved in his seat for a time, then seemed to go immobile. His voice came over earphones buried in my helmet. “We’re set now,” he said. “On course at 78,500 feet. Don’t unbuckle. If you have to talk, listen first before you press the intercom button I pointed out to you earlier. The weather ahead is fine. As a matter of fact, at this altitude we seldom see any weather. It’s all below us.”

The flight was tedious. By stretching up, I could see the top row of instruments on the pilot’s panel. There was nothing but dark blue air beyond the thick glass windscreen. Willow let me know that she was present by lifting her foot alongside my seat and nudging my thigh occasionally. I captured her calf once and squeezed it in return.

I must have dozed. I woke with a start because something was different. The steady roar of the engines had changed. We were going down. I looked at my watch. We had been airborne just under two hours. A quick mental calculation caused my mouth to go dry. We couldn’t be anywhere near land. Two hours flight time would put us in mid-Pacific somewhere between Wake and Guam. Only water lay beneath us... fifteen miles straight down.

Willow kicked me again. I gripped her leg and shrugged my shoulders.

Major Griffiths had slowed the plane. We had lost altitude. He didn’t seem worried enough to tell us what was going on. He had, however, disengaged the autopilot and taken over manual control of the aircraft. He was bending forward. The craft shuddered and vibrated. More speed was lost. I unbuckled, lifted myself up and leaned forward. I could see out ahead.

At first I thought it was a commercial airliner until I saw the business trailing out behind it. Griffiths was making an intercept on a refueling tanker. He had hit the rendezvous right on the button which included descending to the height reachable by the converted Boeing 707. Four contrails stretched out behind its laboring engines: The low angle given off by the rosy light of dawn gave an orange tint to the streamers of ice crystals. We had been flying so fast we were running away from the sun.

The connection made, the two planes remained linked together a very short time. Before I thought it possible, the vaned boom of the tank detached itself and telescoped. Major Griffiths applied power immediately and commenced a climb.

The next time engine power was reduced, the nose dipped and I realized we were in a long, maximum speed descent. Far forward on the horizon was a dark mantle of land pinpointed with tiny lights. We and the dawn were reaching China at the same time.

Griffiths put the plane down on the Hong Kong airport as if it carried a touchy cargo of nitroglycerine. It was led to a distant part of the field. A British Land Rover with two men in it was waiting beside a protected hardstand. Royal Air Force personnel guided the shadow-black aircraft into a high-banked, U-shaped revetment.

I found myself stiff, a little giddy, and muscle-tired. Willow leaned on me heavily when I helped her down the handholds from cockpit to ground. The RAF Group Captain introduced himself as Harrington, mostly to Willow. It was a compliment to her; in the Crown Colony, overcrowded with Chinese, only beauty as unique as Willow’s would get a second glance. He even opened the door of the Land Rover for her.

I would have shaken hands and thanked Griffiths, but he was busy filling out some form that recorded the flight data. I waved. He acknowledged with a nod. A 6,300 mile flight in just over four hours was routine for him.

The way Group Captain Harrington drove made me aware that I had been safer with Major Griffiths. He spent most of his time leering at Willow instead of watching the perimeter road. It led to a clump of buildings over which a Royal Air Force standard was flying.

A short, plump man of fifty with a bald head, full, white mustache and wearing a beautifully-tailored business suit was waiting in an austerely-furnished office. He had a ruddy complexion and an articulate British accent. Harrington treated him with marked respect. The reason became obvious when he was introduced as Sir Hodley-Smythe, Deputy Governor General of the British Crown Colony and New Territories. He was standing next to a slate-topped table where a batman in RAF battle dress was brewing tea over a hot plate. Willow and I were excused immediately after the initial reception.

I was back in minutes, having made room for the tea. Sir Hodley-Smythe was puffing on a pipe between sips of tea from a heavy mug. He gestured to a chair. I sat down. Group Captain Harrington stooped in front of a closed office safe and worked the combination. When he stood up he had a long brown envelope in his hand. He offered it to Sir Hodley-Smythe in keeping with protocol. The chubby Englishman bobbed his head in my direction.

The back flap of the envelope was held fast by a red wax seal. “You chaps must have gotten yourself into quite a snit,” Sir Hodley-Smythe observed. “Bloody nuisance, using our top-grade communications and this RAF station for a message drop. Most unusual. But then, using a multimillion dollar reconnaissance aircraft for personnel transport is hardly common either.”

It sounded like he was fishing, but I wasn’t about to satisfy his curiosity until I’d read what was in the envelope even though a printed line along its lower edge read: In Her Majesty’s Service.

Hawk’s teletyped message was brief. One part referred to a facsimile of a computer printout which was enclosed. The printout listed names of persons having the highest potential to be murder victims based on carefully selected criteria. The nine names were divided into two groups. A footnote told me that the five in the top group had died within the year. I recognized the names of those North Vietnamese officials who had met with violent ends in the past two days.

I was reading the second part of Hawk’s message when Willow came into the room. She was wearing a sky-blue, knee-length Chousan tunic with a choke collar over black trousers. The traditionally loose garment, however, was fashionably form-fitted to accentuate her generous curves. Sleek, straight-banged black hair draped her lovely oval face. I got up and offered Willow my chair. Sir Hodley-Symthe remained seated. His eyebrows bobbed up appreciatively until he subdued his rash act and brought them down into a frown of antipathy. His die-hard colonial chauvinism rejected association with all races of “colour.”

Harrington, visibly embarrassed, quickly offered Willow a mug of steaming tea. I perched on one corner of Group Captain Harrington’s desk, mildly fuming inside.

“Please, gentlemen, go right on,” Willow said graciously. “I apologize for taking so long.” She nodded thanks to Harrington as she accepted the tea. She filled the silence that followed. “Any new developments, Nick?” she asked. I held back an answer while she seated herself in the low chair I had vacated. Her smooth, fluid movements as she did so stimulated my imagination. It took an effort to dispell my daydreaming and get back to Hawk’s message.

I picked out the part designed to cement international relations. “I’m instructed to thank the representatives of Her Majesty’s Government in Hong Kong, for their cooperation and most valuable assistance on such short notice. It says here that those individuals will be given recognition through official channels at an appropriate time.” My last words were unheard because of the thunderous rumble of a heavy jet taking off. I glanced outside. The incredible SR-71A that had brought us to Hong Kong was streaking skyward. Its powerful engines were making the window panes rattle.

Willow jumped up and ran to the window. She put on her dark glasses to shield her eyes from the morning sun. She kept them on when she turned around. “You’d think that Major Griffiths would want a rest.”

“Oh, he’ll get it, but not here. At Okinawa. For him, that’s only twenty five minutes away. You see, we didn’t mind your being dropped off, but it wouldn’t look right to some of our neighbors if we kept that fantastic machine here any length of time. Your government seems to be very touchy about conditions in our area just now, too. So he leaped off for home ground as quickly as he could be serviced. Perhaps you’re tired?”

“Strangely enough, I am,” she admitted.

“It’s a syndrome connected with long-haul, high-speed flight. Jet lag, actually. It becomes more pronounced at supersonic speeds. Experience with the Concorde shows that most passenger have a bit of a physical letdown. After some rest, they’re in the pink again.”

I interrupted the tête-à-tête. “We’ve got to be moving on.”

“There’s something encouraging then?” Willow asked.

“In Bangkok. A positive sighting from a well-established source,” I answered.

“British?” interjected Sir Hodley-Smythe. I made a mental note. The British had a first-rate agent in Thailand.

“The name is Lak Bu Chen. If he’s one of yours, we owe you more thanks.”

Sir Hodley-Smythe’s jowls quivered when he shook his head. “Never heard of the bloke.”

“But I have,” Willow said brightly. “He worked for the Americans in Saigon for years. I’d give any of his reports a high validity.”

“So you’ll be off again, you two,” Sir Hodley-Smythe said cheerfully. He sounded happy to be rid of us.

“As soon as we can get a plane out.” I silently thanked Hawk for anticipating my need for a passport, then wondered if he had more than a hunch that it would be necessary. The closer I got to confronting Martin the more help seemed to be coming my way. It was a good feeling.

“Ah — let’s see,” mused Harrington. “If memory serves me, the next non-stop flight, the kind you’ll have to use so there won’t be any complications because of intermediate stops, is Air India that leaves about fourteen hundred hours. Two o’clock, sir,” he translated for the Deputy Governor General.

“Well, see that you’re right about that and get them — ah — accomodations.” Despite his efforts to appear congenial, Sir Hodley-Smythe’s interest seemed to be preoccupied with getting us out from underfoot.

“We don’t wish to be any trouble, sir,” I said.

The way the pair of Queen’s men looked at me, I could tell we were just that. Sir Hodley-Smythe spoke up first. “We’d like to make your short stay as comfortable as possible.” He swept the room with his sausage-fingered fat hand. “This won’t do. I should think you’d prefer the facilities of the public terminal across the field.”

It was obvious he hadn’t been told about the Honolulu hit-and-run action. “Do you suppose you could arrange something on a short-term basis across the harbor in the Glouster?”

Sir Hodley-Smythe’s eyes snapped over to lock on Willow. Harrington got the message. So did I. The Glouster is Hong Kong’s oldest and most sedate hotel. It is old-line Empire from top to bottom. Despite the many changes Hong Kong has undergone, none have disturbed the pukka atmosphere of the Glouster Hotel. It remains a holdout and monument to early British colonialism. It was unthinkable that any Chinese, especially a half-breed, would be welcome as a guest.

The whole idea of declaring Willow Kane persona non grata irked the hell out of me. Sir Hodley-Smythe was a potbellied bigot. He deserved to have some gravy dropped on his old school tie. Three sentences in Hawk’s message gave me the leverage to do it. They assured me that I had uncontestable authority. “I’m dead beat,” I said quickly. It was a half-truth. “The Glouster will do fine.”

Sir Hodley-Smythe coughed. “I say, old chap, ah... there’s the small matter of—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I cut in. “Our State Department will make full reimbursement of fuel, food, and all services your Foreign Office has agreed to provide. Would you mind getting us on our way, Group Captain Harrington?”

Harrington looked askance of Sir Hodley-Smythe. The stout man’s face was flushed from inner rage. He wasn’t quite sure whether I was naive or deliberately squeezing him. No matter, he could respond in only one way. The red-cheeked man made the concession. “I’ll phone ahead. Knowing that you wish to... ah... draw no attention to your presence here... we’ll take reasonable precautions... ah... in keeping with what we’ve been told. I suggest, however, that you get out of that ridiculous orange flying suit if you hope to remain inconspicuous.”

Aboard the RAF air-sea rescue launch that dodged slow-moving junks and freighters, I felt little satisfaction from having forced Sir Hodley-Smythe into a corner. Our final handshake had been perfunctory. I rationalized my spiteful behavior as evidence that I was beginning to tense as the final stages of my assignment approached.

I looked over at Willow. It was hard to tell what she was thinking with her expressive eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Her head was turned to follow the Hong Kong-Kowloon ferryboats plying their way back and forth across the choppy, ship-clogged harbor. There was a brisk breeze blowing. We remained silent, each keeping to private thoughts.

Whether intentional or not, Sir Hodley-Smythe made certain that we entered the Glouster Hotel without being noticed. We were taken to the employee entrance in an alleyway. A round-shouldered Chinese porter, supervised by a turbaned Sikh, took our bags. The swarthy-faced Indian was unsmiling and laconic.

The rear part of the hotel had a spicy aroma. I could hear the clatter of utensils and the babble of voices coming from the kitchen. The service elevator rose at a snail’s pace. The bearded Sikh could not ignore Willow, but the sidelong glances he gave her were uncharitable.

The fifth floor room to which I was taken was in the rear of the building. It contained one double-size brass bed. The porter dropped our bags in the hallway next to the door. The Sikh held out a registration card and a pen. All it required was my initials on an already filled-in form. “What about the lady?” I asked.

“She is your guest, sahib. That is how I was told.” His face was immobile, yet his narrowed eyes carried a knowing look as if to tell me he had been party to quiet assignations innumerable times before.

Willow laid a hand on my arm. “Let’s not make waves, Nick. It’s not worth it.”

The Chinese porter bowed low from the waist when I gave him an American dollar. I knew better than to offer the proud Sikh a tip.

After the door was closed, Willow and I faced each other. It was the first time we had been alone without something pressing to keep us from feeling a close one-on-one relationship.

The boat ride had been a fast one. My hair was tacky with salt spray. The warm Hong Kong temperature and flagging humidity added to my discomfort. I knew Willow felt it too. “I’ll match you to see who uses the shower first,” I said.

“You go ahead,” she returned.

The water, lukewarm, was nevertheless relaxing. I emerged from the bathroom swathed in an extra-large towel. Willow lay stretched out fully clothed on the bed atop the spread. Her sun glasses were pushed up and rested on her forehead. Her eyes were closed. I thought she was asleep.

While I stood there, her eyes opened. She looked curiously at a couple of visible scars on my body, but she made no comment. She got off the bed, walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

I stripped the double bed and climbed into it, covering with a sheet. I was almost asleep when she came out of the bathroom.

Her hair was done up in a towel. Besides that, she was wearing the dark-lensed harlequin glasses and a smile. Period.

“Something tells me you’re an ass man,” Willow said, turning to exhibit a real butterball type. She glanced at me over her bare shoulder.

“I give equal billing to all erogenous zones,” I corrected her, scrutinizing the lovely scenery. “I also nibble and sometimes I bite,” I warned her.

She came over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her skin was dazzling and its texture was like satin. From her admission about regular workouts to keep herself in shape for rough-and-tumble movie stunts, I figured she was mostly hardened flesh. When I ran my fingertips over enticing portions of it, I found one or two pounds attached to each curve not evident when she was dressed. There was no particular expression on her face, but as my hands moved over certain sensitive areas, she would close her eyes and draw in her breath.

She stretched out on the bed and pulled me over on top of her. Despite my reputation, I’m very selective about women. If it doesn’t start right, more can turn me off than on, but Willow had a way with her.

She reached the rapid-breathing, passion-quickened state after very little activity on my part. She suffered sweet agony in order to prolong the foreplay. When my readiness was complete, she arched beneath me and stuffed a pillow under her tail. I didn’t have to remove her glasses; they had fallen off during her preliminary gyrations.

I slid in, bringing forth a deep, shuddering sigh from her moist, parted lips. Her reactions were innovative, far from mechanical, and highly expert. She had the type of firmly rounded belly that mated perfectly with mine.

I’ve oftentimes heard the comment that muscle-broads are no good in bed.

That’s a crock of night soil.

What I got was better than what I gave — both times.

Only a call on the house phone telling me that we had to leave to catch the Air India flight for Bangkok kept the well from running dry.