Slash and Burn

Not unless his subconscious became so wracked in horror that it caused its live self to hold its breath. Not unless his heart burst in shock. He’d seen the results of both. So he sat calmly and waited.
    The figure on the ground edged its way across the parquet. And the shadow slowly gathered into contours and the figure achieved a shape. It was an elderly man. Stocky. Well dressed. There was something familiar about him. He was moving away so there was no sight of his face. His fingers seemed to be clawing at the ground as if he were peeling old varnish from the wooden tiles. Siri called, “Do I know you?”
    And just as the figure began to turn, to show its face, a cold hand grabbed Siri by the back of his neck. His heart felt like it had been kicked off a steep ledge. He let out a squeal so shrill he doubted it could have come from his own lips. He slapped away the hand and leapt to his feet. The figure on the ground melted into the shadows. The doctor couldn’t catch his breath. He paced back and forth looking for a rhythm that might start up his lungs.
    The major said, “Siri?”
    Then spoke again with a different voice.
    “Siri?”
    “Daeng?”
    Madame Daeng climbed from the bed and felt for her husband in the darkness. When she found him she massaged his stalled lungs and calmed him with her words.
    “Shh. Shh. It’s a dream, my love.”
    He found a breath. He gulped it greedily. He could taste the soot. It was so thick in the air it was like waking up in a house fire—a bitterly cold house fire.
    There was a good deal of throat clearing over breakfast. Officially, it was the day they were due to go home—the fifth day. The morning meal today was the last meal on the agenda. From here on the US pantry was bare. They still had no evidence that Boyd was dead or alive. With no team leader, a general who was confined to his bed to conserve oxygen, and a senator who had armed guards stationed at his front door and rear window and daren’t leave his room, nobody really knew who was in charge. Of course, Judge Haeng thought it was himself. He decided there was little point in going outside into the smoke. Instead, he announced that this would be a good day to bag and label all the souvenirs they’d brought back from the crash site. He also insisted the Lao team members begin work on their individual reports. They should be careful to comment on their American counterparts, including any personal knowledge that may have been gleaned during social moments. Siri and his team had about as much intention of writing spy reports as tying themselves by the bootlaces to the rockets at the fertility festival. But they did grab several sacks of wreckage and set up a “by appointment only” group in Siri’s room.
    With the addition of Sergeant Johnson, Madame Daeng and Comrade Civilai, the insiders now outnumbered the outsiders at a ratio of five to four. The odds were getting a little ridiculous. The newcomers were briefed in their respective languages. The expanded group discussed matters sitting cross-legged on the floor, all but Secretary Gordon who had trouble getting and remaining in that position. He was allowed a chair. Mr. Geung was stationed behind the curtain. Sergeant Johnson was the star turn, accompanied by Auntie Bpoo on the translation. They wanted to know what circumstances might prompt gaps in a pilot’s flight record. Unnerved by the size of the group, Johnson was reluctant at first to give away what might be considered state secrets. It was only when Civilai assured him that everything the Americans believed to be secret was documented in great detail at the ministry of defence that he relented.
    “I wasn’t ever with Air America,” he said. “But you hear things. There was a lot of crossover between different departments. A lot of people passing through town and the military aren’t renowned for keeping its collective mouth shut. Give a guy in uniform a couple of shots of bourbon and he’s your best pal. We heard about one base up at Tahkli in Thailand. It’s a fenced-off compound inside a regular military base. It’s where they parked the U2 spy plane. It’s also the home of a lot of clandestine ops. All the customers up there wear civilian clothes. Now, when I say clandestine, I don’t mean one small secret part of a big CIA master plan. I mean a hell of a lot of little secrets instigated by this ambassador or that general or one or other of the section heads—none of whom have