Viper Strike

CHAPTER 11

Liberty in Bangkok was proving to be memorable, but not at all what David Howard had expected. It had started on the mike boat, when Bentley, Paterowski and Rodriguez had closed in on him like predators, escorting him ashore, standing in line with him waiting for the bus, then regaling him with improbable stories of sexual athletics for almost two hours as the ancient vehicle rattled its way up Route 3 into Bangkok.

They'd spent an hour simply wandering the streets, gawking at the sights and discussing what to do next. Bentley was in favor of visiting a bar he'd heard about in Klong Toey, an idea that terrified Howard since the waterfront district was strictly off-limits to American military personnel. The others preferred a trip to the infamous Patpong Road which they'd heard so much about from Bentley. Howard wasn't much happier with that idea, but he didn't want to be the one to argue about it.

Patpong won out in the end. Patpong Road had been pretty much like Bentley had said it would be, a glittering, tawdry, neon-bright strip of bars, nightclubs, sex theaters and cheap-looking hotels. The villainous-looking taxi driver dropped them off beneath a towering, red-lit sign flashing five repetitions of the word "topless." A sign across the street proclaimed the most sensual massage in Bangkok. Nightclubs abounded, and bars were everywhere, each with its own gimmick: nude dancers, dart contests, old movies, and special shows that promised "Sex! Live Girls! On Stage!"

According to Bentley, Patpong was just another street by day, but at night it became the sex and sin center of the city. Traffic crowded the narrow road, mingling freely with bands of laughing, jostling That men and small groups of foreigners. The street smelled, a mixture of spice, garbage and raw sewage. Howie fought to control his stomach. He didn't belong here, and he felt out of place and embarrassed.

They had dinner first at a Japanese restaurant called Mizu's Kitchen, then spent another hour roaming the street before choosing a bar called the Golden Coast. It was dark inside, and crowded. The very air throbbed to the beat of hard rock. They were met as soon as they stepped inside by four dazzling That girls, each wearing high heels and three wisps of golden silk and string which with considerable generosity might have been called bikinis.

There were numbers on small badges pinned to their bras. Paterowski explained to Howie with a wink and an elbow nudge that the numbers allowed the bar's patrons to ask for a particular girl, just in case there was further business they wanted to transact with her later.

There seemed to be a scantily clad, numbered girl for every male in the bar, drinking with the customers, laughing and talking. Howie's girl wore the number 21. She had a sweet smile, and Howie thought she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen except, possibly, for Charlene back home.

But Charlene had never worn a bathing suit like that. When Number 21 turned around to lead the way to a table, it looked like she was wearing nothing but a couple of pieces of gold string, and Howard didn't know how to react to the sight of her bare buttocks. How did you talk to a girl who walked around like that in public? He felt a fiery, stiffening urgency in his loins he'd not known since Charlene had let him kiss her in her father's car, and was immediately ashamed of the comparison.

"C'mon, guys and gals!" Bentley cried, sitting down at the table.

"What'll it be?"

They ordered something fiery and potent the English-speaking bartender called Mekong Wine and Bentley called "Patpong panther piss." Howie's head was swimming after the first couple of sips, though whether that was from the drink, excitement, or fear he couldn't tell.

"Boy oh boy," Paterowski said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his hands together. He was looking toward a brightly-lit stage at the back of the room. "Get a load of that!"

If Howard was surprised by the brief attire of the hostesses, the floor show nearly finished him. The girl was stark naked, dancing with rhythmic, sensuous gyrations. Howie stared, unable to take his eyes off her.

"Ai!" Rodriguez exclaimed. "ital tetas!"

"I'll stick with this one here," Bentley said, leering as he pulled his girl closer and toyed with her bra. "She's got class! You can tell…"

Paterowski's girl grinned as she rubbed her hand down his shirt front toward his crotch. "And you horny sailor men," she said. "We know."

"Right you are, babe," Bentley said. He took another swallow of Mekong.

"Best in the fleet!"

Howard wondered how she'd known the four of them were sailors. They were all wearing civies and looked like typical tourists, as far as he could tell.

"You all Jefferson men?" one of the girls wanted to know.

"Sure are," Paterowski said. "You heard of us?"

"I think we want find out!" The girls giggled, as though sharing a secret.

Number 21 pressed herself close to Howard, nuzzling his ear. Her perfume threatened to overwhelm him. "So what you do, sailor?" She laughed. "On ship, I mean."

"Uh… actually, I'm a message runner," Howie said. Number 21's breast was rubbing against his arm, each movement threatening to dislodge the scrap of material covering it. "I… uh… run messages."

"Hey, don't be so modest, Howie!" Rodriguez said. "Don't let him fool you, chica. He's right up there in CATCC with the rest of us."

"This cat-see," Bentley's girl said. Her number was 15. "Is what?"

"The heart of the carrier, babe. The center of the whole damned show."

"Like radar? We know radar. Very important on ship."

"Right you are, honey," Paterowski said. "We run the radar. The flyboys couldn't even land without us there to help 'em. But hey, we didn't come here to talk shop!"

"We like big, important guys," Bentley's girl said. "For you, very, very special treatment! Sanuk!"

"What's sanuk?"

The girls laughed and Howard's girl explained. "Is fun!"

"Hey, I like the sound of that!" Rodriguez said.

"Yeah," Paterowski said. "What say we go someplace where we can enjoy some sanuk in private?"

"You wait." Number 15 pulled away from Bentley. "Wait here minute. I call, get special place. We go have fun."

"Whoa!" Paterowski said, watching her go. "We got some hot numbers here, hey, Bent?"

"Told you Patpong was a great place. Wonder what she has in mind?"

Number 15 didn't return for nearly fifteen minutes. When she reappeared, she was wearing a leather miniskirt and a fire-red silk blouse and carried a pocketbook. She snapped something at the other girls in That.

Howard's girl replied with a machine gun-like barrage in the same language. He felt her stiffen next to him and sensed that she was angry though he couldn't tell what the argument was about. The first girl spoke again, her tone imperious as she gestured toward the front of the bar. The others seemed to give in, then. All three stood up gracefully and walked away, not even looking back or saying good-bye.

"Hey," Rodriguez demanded. "Where're they going?"

"You think they go on street dressed like that?" She held out her hand for Bentley. "They meet us at special place. I call friend, all fix. You see!"

"What do you say, guys?" Bentley said, smirking. "Let's party!"

"I'm with you, man!" Paterowski said, rising.

The drinks already paid for, they trooped out of the Golden Coast, following the girl. Howie wondered what her name was. The number seemed so… degrading, somehow.

On the street, Bentley's girl led the way along the crowded sidewalk.

"Hey, where we going', chica?" Rodriguez asked.

"Not far. You see."

"What about the other girls?" Rodriguez asked.

"They come. You see!"

She led them across the street, then turned a corner into a narrow alley between a topless bar and an establishment which billed itself as a short-time hotel.

Howard pulled back. He didn't like the tawdry feel to the whole scene, didn't like the numbers, the open advances. It made him feel dirty. "This isn't for me, guys," he said suddenly. "You all go on without me."

"Howie!" Rodriguez said. "Shit, don't lose it now, man! I mean, these girls are hot!"

"Uh-uh." Fear… and denial turned to resolve. This was wrong. "You guys go ahead, Ernesto. I'll be over there." He pointed to another bar across the street next to a massage parlor. He could hear a thumping beat which sounded like country rock, and its neon sign promised American food.

There was nothing on its marquis about girls or sex. He turned and started across the street, threading his way through the traffic before the others could stop him. "Get me when you're ready to go, okay?"

"Right, man, if that's what you want." He checked his watch. "Shouldn't be more'n a couple of hours, okay?"

"Fine." He turned and started walking away, resisting the urge to run as he dodged cars, taxis, and speeding tuk-tuks.

He didn't look back.

Major Lin Thuribhopal took the stairs silently, two at a time. He held in his hand a Type 67 automatic pistol, a Chinese design with a built-in silencer which gave it a heavy-barreled, clumsy look. Slung across his shoulder was more substantive firepower, an Israeli Uzi, also silenced. Lin had heard that Hsiao had acquired the weapon from a drug lord in the Golden Triangle.

Nothing Hsiao did could surprise Lin now. The man who claimed to be a high-ranking member of the Chinese intelligence service had an organization which extended into three countries at least, and reached into the highest levels of the governments of both Rangoon and Bangkok.

But now, Lin took a special pride knowing that tonight, at this moment, the entire plan known as Sheng li rested upon him.

He reached the floor directly beneath the control tower booth, a windowless area partitioned into small offices Where flight plans and weather advisories were filed. A bored-looking air force sergeant sat at the reception desk, feet up, a paperback novel in his hands. He saw that he had a visitor and started to rise. "Yes, Major? What can I-"

The Type 67 in Lin's hand gave one loud, harsh chuff, then another, the weapon bucking in his hand. The sergeant's eyes widened as twin stains of blood appeared high on the front of his uniform shirt, spread, and merged. He groped for the revolver strapped to his hip and Lin fired a third time, this time tearing away part of the man's throat and knocking him back against his chair.

Lin was appalled at the sound. He'd thought the silencer would eliminate the pistol's noise, the way they did in the movies, but the shots had been as loud as someone smashing the desktop with a baseball bat.

"Sergeant Pho?" someone called from the next office. "What's going on out there?"

Lin's hands were shaking now, but he was ready when the duty officer walked out of his office. He fired again before the air force lieutenant had even seen him. The officer staggered back against the door frame, hands clenched across his stomach, eyes bugging out in shock and pain and surprise.

The next shot caught him high in the forehead, shattering his skull and spraying the wall with bits of scalp, hair, bone, and splatters of blood.

The assassin waited for a long moment, listening for any further movement. The guard on the floor below was already dead, his throat slit when Lin came up on him from behind. The only people left in the building should be the duty traffic controlman and one or two assistants manning the tower, consoles on the floor upstairs. Had they heard? Lin held his breath, waiting for some response.

Nothing.

Moving quickly now, Lin dragged the two bodies back into the lieutenant's office and closed the door on them. There was no time now to mop the streaks of blood on the wall or the linoleum floor, but with luck, no one else would be coming up those stairs until it was too late.

Since he didn't know for sure how many people there were in the tower gallery, Li tucked the pistol into his waistband and unslung the Uzi, yanking back the charging handle to chamber the first round. Quietly, he walked to the door to the stairs going up, opened it, and went through.

The stairwell was kept closed off at both ends and darkened to keep light from spilling through from below and ruining the night vision of duty personnel in the tower. He reached the top of the stairs, paused on the landing outside the closed door, then tapped lightly with the muzzle of the Uzi's heavy suppressor.

The door swung open seconds later. Lin glimpsed dim red lighting, the amber glow of radar screens, a young private's expression of horror as he saw the Uzi in Lin's hands. The private tried to slam the door shut, but Lin squeezed the Uzi's trigger. Firing full auto, the SMG sent 9-mm slugs chopping through door and private alike, the sound somewhat quieter than the earlier suppressed pistol shots.

Lin rammed his way past the splintered door and burst into the room. A railed walkway circled the tower chamber above the level of the door, with stairways leading up at two points. Another private sat at a radar console, already turning in his swivel chair as Lin fired again. The private staggered to his feet, then pitched forward over the railing as Lin extended the burst, sweeping across a corporal who was rising from his chair at another console nearby. Glass popped and crazed as bullets smashed through window panels.

A fourth man, the duty officer, was lunging toward an alarm button when Lin's deadly scythe of gunfire cut his legs out from under him and sent him tumbling to the floor.

The Uzi's slide locked open, the magazine empty. Drawing the pistol, Lin climbed the stairs, then paced along the walkway. The lieutenant and the corporal were both still alive. He killed each of them with a single shot through the head. Both privates were already dead.

From the control tower's upper deck, he could look through the huge, slanted windows which gave a view out across the jungle in all directions. A half-moon illuminating scattered clouds low in the west gave light enough to distinguish the jungle's edge. Nearer, but still a couple of hundred meters off, floodlights bathed a portion of the tarmac off the main runway where a maintenance crew was working late on a That F-5 down for repairs. Lin studied the workers through a large pair of binoculars sitting on the console. There was no sign of alarm, no indication that they'd heard the gunfire.

Fortunately, the windows were still intact save for a chain of white-starred bullet holes. If one of those panels had shattered completely, he could have had the whole base coming out to investigate.

So far, then, so good. Lin went to the tower radio and turned the channel selector to a carefully memorized frequency, then picked up the microphone and began speaking. "Victory, this is Arrow. Victory, this is Arrow. Do you copy?"

There was a nerve-grating delay filled with the hiss of static. Then a voice replied, "Arrow, this is Victory. We receive you. Go ahead."

"Victory, Arrow. Execute. Repeat, execute."

The voice on the other end acknowledged and the channel went dead. Lin picked up his Uzi, dropped his empty magazine, and replaced it with a loaded one from the pouch riding on his hip. He rolled the corporal's body out of its chair and sat down, facing the sunken doorway through which he'd just come. All he had to do now was wait.

The E-2C Hawkeye was an ungainly-looking aircraft, driven by twin turboprops and mounting a twenty-four-foot-wide, saucer-shaped radome above its spine. The saucer, rotating at the rate of six revolutions per minute, was the housing for the aircraft's powerful APS-125 UHF radar. Despite its strange appearance, the E-2C was widely regarded as the single most capable radar-warning and air-traffic-control aircraft in service, able to track more than two hundred and fifty air targets at a time, and to control as many as thirty friendly interceptors. On board were five men, the two pilots, a CIC officer, an air controller, and a radar operator. Jefferson routinely kept at least one of her four Hawkeyes airborne at all times, where they served as the long-range eyes of the carrier battle group.

The CIC officer was Lieutenant Dave Dunning. He braced himself against the overhead as he leaned over the shoulder of the radarman first class for a closer look at the bogies.

"There they are, sir," the radarman said. "They come and go. I think they're hedgehopping."

The amber screen showed a confusing tangle of blips, most identified by their IFF transponders as commercial flights or That military aircraft. Clear at the top of the screen, though, was a tiny cluster of lights. They showed no ID, and they appeared to be moving southeast.

"Keep on 'em, son." Dunning opened a channel and began speaking into his helmet mike. "Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Victor Kilo Two."

"Victor Kilo, Homeplate. We copy."

"Homeplate, we have multiple unidentified targets, bearing three-four-four, range approximately two-three-zero. They appear to be inbound, relative bearing one-three-zero, speed three-five-zero, over."

"Roger that, Victor Kilo. How many contacts, over?"

"Homeplate, hard to call it." The targets were at the extreme limit of the Hawkeye's radar range. "Estimate eight to ten bogies. They…

Homeplate, they appear to be coming across the border, probably at extreme low altitude."

"Copy that, Victor Kilo. Stand by." There was a long silence. Then: "Victor Kilo, come to three-five-zero. CIC wants a continuous track of your targets."

"Rog." Dunning stared at the blips on the amber screen for a moment longer. Like everyone else in the carrier air wing that day, he'd heard about the MiG attack, knew that Batman Wayne and his RIO had been shot down up there. "Someone back there better pass this on to the Thais," he added. "It looks to me like they're about to get dumped on."

"Roger that."

He listened as the Hawkeye's pilot confirmed the course change instructions. Jefferson was sending Victor Kilo Two farther north, hoping for a better look at those intruders. As he watched, one of the small blips in the cluster split as the E-2C's radar got a better look at it, then merged once more. There were at least eleven of the bastards… probably a lot more. What the hell were they doing up there?

The alert telephone was buzzing, and Major Lin ignored it. That air defense radars had probably detected Victory and someone in Bangkok was passing on the warning, but it was too late now. Already he could hear the clatter of the approaching helicopters. They were clearly visible on the radar, a triangular formation of blips coming in from the northwest. Other blips circled more quickly in the distance. Those would be the MiGs providing air cover.

"Arrow, this is Victory," a voice said over the headphones Lin was wearing. "Commencing final approach."

"Victory, Arrow," he said. "All clear. You have complete surprise."

On the field, several of the RTAF personnel working on the down-checked F-5 had stopped and were staring into the night. The rotor noise was much louder now.

A dazzling beam of light stabbed out of the sky, casting an oval circle of illumination across the tarmac. Lin could just barely make out the dark mass of the helicopter behind the searchlight as it drifted down out of the night. Behind it a second helo approached… and a third. As they moved into the illumination cast by the work-lights on the field, their hulls became more distinct… the familiar shapes of UHI Hueys, RTAF rounders prominent on their tails. Several air force men began walking toward the first helo to help secure it, stooping as they moved to avoid being caught by the rotors.

The lead Huey's cargo bay hatch slid back. Soldiers began piling out.

Gunfire stuttered from a pintel-mounted machine gun, the muzzle flash a jagged flicker in the darkness. The air force men began dropping, mowed down by the sweep of an invisible blade. Small-arms fire was added to the machine gun's chatter. Someone screamed.

More helicopters were touching down all over the base, their cargo doors sliding open, troops jumping out. Overhead, the first escorting MiG shrieked low across the airfield. There was a sudden flash, then the dull whump of an explosion. Flame boiled into the sky, illuminating the field as a dozen Thais scattered in every direction. The F-5 burned furiously.

Lin turned when he heard the pounding of boots coming up the control tower steps. "Lieutenant!" a shaky voice screamed in That. "Lieutenant!

It's an attack!"

The soldier stumbled through the door and into the tower chamber. He saw the bodies on the floor and gaped. Lin's burst of fire caught him an instant later, slamming him backward into a wall in a splatter of blood.

More explosions thumped in the night, these from the direction of the barracks. Already, the volume of fire was dwindling. The attack had been so sudden, so unexpected, that only the handful of soldiers actually on guard had been able to respond, and those few had been quickly overwhelmed.

The alert phone continued to buzz.

"Victory!" a new voice called from the door. "Victory!"

"Arrow!" Lin replied, giving his code name as countersign. He stood up as a trio of soldiers cautiously entered the control tower room. The leader wore the green uniform and collar device of a Burmese army lieutenant. The two soldiers were more raggedly clad in a mix of uniforms. Drug army conscripts, Lin decided. One held an AK-47, the other an American M-16.

The officer smiled. "Major Lin?"

"I am Lin." He lowered his Uzi. "Welcome!"

The lieutenant turned away. "Do it."

Both soldiers opened fire at the same time, the bullets punching through Lin's body, sending him sprawling back across the tower radar console.

Lieutenant Bhan Sun had carried out his orders. There'd been a grave risk that the Thais might learn just how thoroughly their military was penetrated by Hsiao's people.

That could not be allowed to happen. He made certain that Lin was dead before leaving the tower. Outside, the last of the That soldiers and airmen were being rounded up and shot.

There would be no enemy witnesses to what had happened at U Feng.