Slash and Burn

would be taken on a Swedish forestry helicopter via Luang Prabang to Muang Kham, thus avoiding the smog. From there they’d be put on the local bus to Phonsavan which currently traveled with an armed escort. Gordon had no idea how long this process would take but there were better than even odds that they’d arrive before the teams departed. The weather report from the capital was that the smog had shrouded a fifty kilometer radius around Phonsavan and there was no wind forecast. They could be there for a very long time. Fires were still burning and to Siri it really looked as if a thick curtain of intrigue was being deliberately pulled around the hotel.
    As the whiskey took hold, the full-table discussion crumbled into smaller groupings. Phosy had taken the opportunity to continue his discussion with Sergeant Johnson. Peach acted as their translator with Dtui making up the four. At one stage during their conversation Dtui was absolutely astounded when her husband reached across the plastic tablecloth and took hold of her hand. She thought he’d mistaken it for a napkin but he kept hold of it. It happened right there in public for everyone to see. Even Commander Lit noticed. She put it down as a small miracle right up there with his remembering her birthday—which he didn’t.
    “I still don’t get it,” Phosy said. “The sergeant here learned to fly with his dad in their family business. He got his license when he was seventeen. He graduated from high school with A grades in all the sciences … and the marines wouldn’t let him be a pilot?”
    “That’s pretty much it,” said Peach.
    “Why not?” Dtui asked Johnson directly. He laughed.
    “For the same reason they wouldn’t let me be a quarterback,” said the sergeant. “Some things are reserved for white boys.”
    “He couldn’t be a pilot because he was black?” Dtui asked.
    “I’ve applied to the marine air corps every six months and been knocked back each time,” Johnson told the interpreter. “I guess I should think myself lucky they let me be a chief mechanic. It took me eight years to work my way up to that lofty position. When the war ended and they weren’t desperate for mechanics any longer they had me in uniform guarding a half-empty consulate in Vientiane. But it could be worse. I could be dumb and black.”
    “You must be angry,” Dtui said.
    “Things are getting better,” said the marine. “Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if my son makes it to copilot by the time he’s fifty.”
    “How old is he now?”
    “Four.”
    They were disturbed by the sound of Rhyme the journalist yahooing like a cowboy as he walked in the door of the restaurant. Under his arm he had a thick folder. He grabbed the first glass he came to and quaffed it. The owner didn’t seem to mind.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I bring you the magic of aerial photography. The wonder of journalism. The genius of man.”
    He took out one large photographic print from the folder and held it up, walking around the table like the round-announcing girls at boxing matches, complete with the sexy walk and blown kisses. The Lao assumed he was drunk with whiskey but it turned out he was merely drunk with the glory of discovery. The buzz of Peach’s translation accompanied his announcement.
    “It was the first day of the mission,” he said. “And our last period of visibility. As we floated over the picturesque landscape from Spook City to Ban Hoong, our fearless photojournalist leaned bravely out of the hatch behind Sergeant Johnson here and recorded our descent to the merciless terrain that had claimed our young pilot. We followed the crack carved through the thick jungle by the Ban Hoong stream. And there, no more than three miles from the village, was where the ghost of our pilot stopped to rest and clean the blood from his mouth.”
    “How could you know that?” Yamaguchi asked.
    “Because, respected sir, he had the foresight to tell us so.”
    Rhyme dropped his first print onto the table in front of the doctor, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a large magnifying glass. This he handed to Yamaguchi.
    “Perhaps you could tell our audience tonight exactly what it is you see there at the bend in the river.”
    Yamaguchi squinted through the glass and pumped it back and forth in search of a focus.
    “A pile of rocks on a sand bank?” he said.
    “A pile of rocks. Yes, sirree. A pile of rocks. But look what happens when you zoom in to