Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One Page 35

  “Where did he die?”

  “In Kowloon. Cops killed him during a bust."

  “Are you married?” Butch asked, putting out his cigarette in the bottle.

  “Yeah, I’m married.”

  “Does your wife know you're here?”

  “No. Hell no.” he said, shaking his head. “She doesn’t need to know,” Terry said, tapping the ashes into the empty sake bottle. “But, she’ll be taken care of.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “A girl and a boy,” he answered, sipping the sake, burying his emotions. Butch inhaled the cigarette smoke through his nose, watching Terry’s facial movements and uncomfortable squirming.

  “Maybe you’re walking in your father’s shadow?” Butch suggested gently.

  "And maybe you've become your father without knowing it."

  “Maybe.”

  “No easy way,” Terry added, snuffing out the cigarette in the round bottle cap.

  “I’m gone all the time too," Butch said. "I’m never home. Now my wife is pregnant,” he said, shaking his head.

  “At least you're home long enough to get her pregnant,” he said, both laughing at the irony of their conversation.

  “My ex-girlfriend doesn’t want me anymore either,” Butch added.

  “Yeah, that's tough, my girlfriend went back to her husband just before this trip,” Terry replied sadly, sipping his sake.

  “What’s next?” Butch asked.

  “I don't know. Just find another girlfriend."

  "Not for me."

  "Do you think a man’s pain is different from a woman’s pain?” Terry asked, removing a cigarette from the pack.”

  "To me, pain is pain."

  "Nope," Terry answered, shaking his head.

  “I only want happiness and peace. Both are difficult to obtain,” Butch said, sipping his sake.

  “Happiness is elusive, so is peace,” Terry replied. “As long as I have moments of peace, I’m happy. Being in jail is peaceful, but I’m not happy.”

  “I have degrees of happiness, but no peace,” Butch stated sadly.

  “Why no peace?” Terry asked, lighting another cigarette.

  “Ever since my father was murdered, I haven’t been able to resolve my pain. I never found his killers.”

  “I see your dilemma. Underneath your frustration is resentment, under the resentment is anger, under the anger is pain,” Terry said, grinning with heroin consciousness as Butch quietly stared at him. “Under your pain is shame and guilt; that’s the undercurrent,” Terry said, slowly shaking his finger at him as his constricted pupils scrutinized Butch’s reaction.

  “Never thought of it like that before. Interesting.”

  “But don't tell me you’re still looking for your father's killers?"

  “I am. I can’t rest until I find them. It's my life's mission,” Butch said with a surge of controlled anger. “It’s an emotional and intellectual challenge.”

  “Good luck. That’s tough. Better close the door on that,” he advised, taking a deep draw on his cigarette. “I just forgot about my father’s death. I buried that grief alive.”

  “You buried it alive without resolving your pain? How can you sleep?"

  “I didn’t put a value on his death. I didn’t care about his dying,” Terry explained, exhaling the smoke with a deep sigh.

  “You don't care?"

  “He’s dead, man. He’s dead. He’s not coming back,” Terry pronounced with a burst of emotional expression. “Should I kill all the bad people? Is his war my war?” Terry shouted, choked with emotions, clutching his fist, emotionally re-connecting with his past.

  “I can’t think like you. I need to put this behind me."

  "If I don't feel it, I don't have to heal it."

  "Terry, relationships are linked by successful business. Maybe people are still alive who remember my father's murder. I need some clues to my father’s death.”

  “What kind of clues?” he asked, folding the small sample packet of remaining heroin.

  “Well, who were the dealers and who were the cops involved in the bust?” Butch asked, swallowing the remaining sake.

  “This is an old case, probably all reports have been sanitized or destroyed,” he said shaking his head. “And then what, you gonna kill em?”

  "Maybe. But, the same group that murdered my father, maybe sold heroin to your father?” Butch decided, suddenly.

  “That’s two real big maybe’s. So what? Besides, that’s crazy detective talk.” He replied, scratching his intense itchiness.

  “Maybe. But we’re about the same age. We were in Hong Kong and Kowloon at the same time. You said everybody knows each other,” he reminded him as they perspired in the small dimly lit musty cell, pondering in silence for several moments.

  “I think I understand your soul,” Terry volunteered, breaking the silence, puffing his cigarette. Both men sat in stillness, listening to the quiet as beads of sweat dripped from their foreheads. Terry rested his head in his hands as his bare feet touched the warm concrete floor. Butch sat on the floor, grim faced, feeling sorry for himself.

  “I believe in fate,” Terry said quietly, looking up. “The consequences of your actions in present and past incarnations determine your lot in future rebirths. I believe this,” he said with spiritual conviction and heroin insight.

  “Let's work something out that’s good for us.” Butch suggested with a sense of optimism. "Take a risk with me Terry. I can't do this alone. I need help."

  "I'm the wrong guy, Butch. I'm a crook not a cop.” He said experiencing another drop in blood pressure.

  "Hey, anytime you have justice, you also have injustice. It's the rule of the game," Butch said, drawing on his cigarette.

  "You're asking me to re-organize my history. I don't know if I want to do that," Terry said, watching Butch stand, slowly removing his shirt. "Jesus Christ, you’re spooking me Butch. When the hell did that happen?" Terry asked, staring at Butch's tattooed body, rising to his feet in respect.

  "Long time ago," Butch said, staring solemnly into his past.

  "So you work both sides? You move and live in two worlds? You work both sides of the street," Terry reasoned out loud, staring at his intricate tattoo suit. “I had no idea,” he said shocked, promptly bowing low in deference to Butch’s rank, displaying respect to ancient rules and cultural beliefs of the Bushido spirit of the warrior and criminal code of conduct.

  "I live by my own rules. By my own sense of justice," Butch said with emotional conviction as Terry stared at him in a new light. “I’m at the center of two opposing Japanese ideologies: the ‘Honne’ and ‘Tatemae’ - the real face and the mask.”

  “I understand. I do. But balancing the paradoxes is complicated. You know as well as I do, the cops know the mobs and the mobs know the rules,” Terry said emotionally, with a dry mouth, as his skin flushed in reaction to the heroin. “I’m speechless. Of course I’ll help you.”

  “Work with me and I’ll sanitize your records. You won’t be traced or have a criminal profile. We both know that some local law enforcement is sporadic and always flexible.”

  “You just need cash and influential friends.” Terry said, knowingly, absorbed in the moment, overwhelmed that Butch was a true gangster in disguise, an Elder Brother, a leader in the inner circle, he was part of the Yakuza Nakama.

  “You know as well as I do police need help from gangsters,” Butch stated, quietly, keenly aware of his dual and contradictory faces in life.

  “Being an informant is dangerous in any country. No one wants to die a rat,” Terry answered skeptically, sitting on the bed.

  “Will working with me help you or hurt you?"

  "I'm not sure?"

  "What's the hesitation?"

  "I hate deals. It means I'm obligated. And I don't like obligations. But I trust you. I just don’t want to die."

  "All of life is a risk. This risk may change your life. It’s a positive risk. It’s a growth risk. And, a
risk in the right direction." Butch said, calmly.

  "Your tattooed body says a lot about your character and conviction toward yourself and life. Okay then, this is the beginning of a long relationship,” he said extending his hand in agreement.

  “It will only last until one of us dies.”

  "I can do this," Terry said with earnest sincerity, gripping Butch’s hand, and bowing in deference to his senior position in the criminal hierarchy.

  "I know you can, now let's drink," Butch suggested, pulling out a bottle of Suntory Whisky from his oversized brief case.

  "Leave the kilo of heroin when you go," he suggested, tapping the package of cigarettes against the palm of his hand, as his senses were expanding beyond the range of usual perception.

  "Are you sick or crazy?" Butch asked, shaking his head, handing the whisky to Terry, as both men grinned in suspicious admiration as a new level of euphoria re-booted Terry’s brain.

  The Search

  4 September 1964. East of Khe Sanh. Wearing Tiger Stripe camouflaged fatigues and boonie hats, Primo and the Recon Team were moving through the jungle single file, Ranger file, a move-stop-listen style of walking that took hours of silent trekking to reach even the shortest objective. Noticing a reticulated, nearly invisible python slithering aimlessly in front of him, salty-sweat trickled down Primo’s cammie-painted forehead and into his eyes as the temperature reached 105 degrees with 97 percent humidity. Wiping his eyes, glancing at the snake, then his watch, it was 10 hundred hours. Primo, Bone, and Fly were together again, joined by three U.S. Marines and nine Meo irregulars recruited from a 100-man Shock Company which ambushes and harasses Vietcong and the Pathet Lao in the Southwestern area of the Golden Triangle. The Meo were Trail Watchers assigned to a nearby recon border surveillance camp, participating in intelligence gathering missions along communist infiltration routes near the borders of Laos and North Vietnam. Frequent ambushes were taking heavy casualties on Recon Teams due to small, short, vicious and bloody encounters. Everyone was extremely cautious. The area was a maze of intricate routes zigzagging westward out of three North Vietnamese passes. The terrain was essentially jungle and mountains with countless caves and ravines in which to hide.

  The men sweating profusely, carefully whacked land leeches clinging to their skin as they anxiously approached the opium-processing lab identified by Human Intel reports. Each cammie-faced man carried special equipment, including rations for irregular troops. They all carried “sterile” weapons, which could not be traced through normal procurement channels. The Montagnard point man carried a 12-gauge riot shotgun, an Ithaca Model 137. The scattergun’s devastating close range fire could sweep the trail clear of any enemy at close range. The second Montagnard carried an M3A1 submachine gun, a Grease Gun with a 30-round magazine. The next two tribesmen carried four hundred 9mm rounds for their two Swedish K submachine guns. A Special Forces Marine was behind them, carrying the XM21 sniper rifle, a modified version of the M14 with Redfield three-to-nine-power variable telescopic sights. A young Marine followed, carrying an M79 Grenade launcher, a 40 mm weapon called "Thumper," capable of firing high explosives accurately out to 400 meters. Another Montagnard held a satchel of M26 fragmentation grenades with a four to five second fuse. The third Marine carried M-34 incendiary grenades called "Willie Peter" because of their white phosphorous content, which also had a fragmentation effect that combined with burning white phosphorous particles.

  Pythons slowly slithered into the dense foliage as the team moved through the bush with insects, ants, and centipedes bothering them constantly. Each soldier had jungle sores, small cuts, and insect bites; the skin between their fingers and toes were cracked and bleeding. Land leeches resembling pregnant cigars continuously clung to clothing and skin as the Recon team moved through the bush. Cleanliness was impossible to maintain; their utilities were filthy and stiff.

  Walking between Bone and Fly, Primo felt a million miles from home, yet a part of him felt very peaceful being in the bush.

  "Incredibly beautiful," he whispered, scanning the lush tall grass reminded him of a summer spent on a small Minnesota farm. Primo struggled with his feelings about the men who he had previously spent almost a year in the bush with, conducting Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols. He wanted to avoid emotional attachments. Spot-checking the men, he noticed big black rats scurrying up ahead. In between the move-stop-listen pace, Primo was flashing back to the day his platoon was ambushed. He felt guilty, and psychologically kicked himself every day. He had buried his feelings and was slowly withdrawing from life. Making a promise to himself not to have close friends he had difficulty revealing his true feelings; he was becoming emotionally numb. Yet, with Fly and Bone, a special bond was in place, but with the new troops, male bonding was not on the agenda. His guard was up. Primo was tense. Quiet prevailed; there was no sign of the enemy. The patrol was somber until Fly spotted a slight movement that did not seem natural.

  “Trouble on the front left flank,” Fly whispered, holding up his clenched fist, signaling the group to stop. Following his instincts, he crouched, studying the grass and underbrush, following the shadows shifting and moving toward the patrol like an uneven wave.

  “I see them,” Primo whispered as huge rats scurried in every direction.

  “Get down boss,” Bone shrieked in a low voice. “Get ready,” he whispered, and when he did, machine gunfire cracked in the air. Six feet in front of the Meo, clods of dirt from the ground started flying. Springing to their feet, five khaki-clad Viet Cong ran across an opening in front of the patrol firing their machine guns as they ran. Hot lead was zinging by the tribesmen’s ear and chewing up the nearby trees. VC rockets burst into white shock waves flashing out with fragments whirring above their heads. Primo's men hugged the ground as shrapnel filled the air. Advancing, the guerrillas continued firing. Near misses sent dirt exploding into everyone’s face.

  “Die! Die! Die!” the Meo point man shouted, crawling on his stomach, frantically opening fire with repeated volleys from his shotgun, and spraying a wide area.

  “To the right! To the right!” a Marine yelled, firing at a VC charging from the flanks, shooting him in the leg. Getting up, the VC wobbled, firing his Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle. The second Montagnard soldier, carrying a submachine gun, fired 30 rounds, hitting the VC repeatedly, watching him fall motionless as a bullet found its mark, exploding inside his head. Each recon man aimed carefully in fierce desperation, holding his trigger down firing everything he had, all at once. Emotions were running wild, with adrenalin being produced by the gallon.

  “Keep moving! Crawl, Crawl, Crawl!” Primo shouted.

  "Get down everybody!" a soldier yelled, "Here comes thumper! Here comes thumper!" He shouted, rapidly firing fragmentation grenades. The thumper kicked out high explosives into a Viet Cong machine gun position, sending body parts flying through the air.

  “Keep firing! Give them everything!” Primo screamed.

  “Eat this! Eat this,” a Marine yelled, firing white phosphorous grenades, blasting hot metal fragments above the VC. Within seconds, communist soldiers were moaning, lying deaf and bleeding from the explosive concussion of the blasts. Up ahead, a claymore mine suddenly exploded on their flanks and a Marine was screaming in agony.

  “Hold the line! Hold the line!” Primo shouted his eyes wide with fear. “Keep your heads down! Lay down a base of fire,” he ordered, crawling toward the wounded Marine as the VC were firing from every angle, firing for maximum effect, not picking targets.

  “Crawl through the fire,” Primo shouted as adrenaline raced through every muscle tissue in his body. “Keep your heads down," he yelled. "Keep firing!” he ordered, crawling toward the wounded Marine.

  "Kill me! Go ahead kill me!" the wounded Marine screamed at the Pathet Lao soldier standing over him, cocking and aiming his weapon preparing to kill the defenseless Marine.

  "Hey asshole!" Primo screamed, startling the communist, shooting him in the head as he quickly tu
rned, violently whacking him backward into the bush. The Marine moaned in pain, his eyes losing focus with every blink. Crawling through the blood-soaked dirt, shock engulfed Primo as he examined the wounds and blood oozing from an unrecognizable limb torn apart by hot metal fragments from the claymore mine.

  "Shit, what the...?" Primo shouted, grabbing the seriously wounded Marine’s arm as parts of his body came off in his hands.

  "What? What?" the soldier asked deliriously, his body trembling as his face and skull were bleeding from shrapnel wounds.

  "Your arms and legs are broken," Primo answered, cautiously looking at the soldier’s dangling arm and missing leg as blood spurted from all his wounds.

  “My turn to die. My turn to die,” he cried, his body trembling, slipping into shock with every breath. “How bad? How bad is it?” he pleaded, retreating into a delirium state.

  “Keep fighting, don’t give up.” Primo shouted, at the team as he began having vivid flashbacks, activating his post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms, and becoming disoriented and detached.

  “Kill me. Shoot me,” the Marine pleaded. "I'm a mess. It's over for me, it's over," he sobbed. "Do the right thing, Lieutenant," he said quivering, descending into delirium as blood poured from his body.

  “I can’t. I can’t kill a Marine. I can’t kill my own man,” Primo said, swallowing his emotions, quickly slipping into emotional and psychological quicksand.

  “Why, God? Why, God?” the Marine gasped, gulping blood from his cranial and facial wounds. “I can’t move my arm! I can’t move my legs.”

  “Hold on. Just, hold on,” Primo said, in false hope, lying next to the mangled Marine.

  “I’m a mess. I can’t live like this,” the Marine said, his eyes blinking, trying to spit and clear his throat. “Shoot me, Lieutenant. Please kill me! Please set me free!” he pleaded.

  “I can’t, I can’t,” Primo said weeping, becoming numb as his anxiety increased and his motor functions neurologically tightened his muscles, freezing his responses in the moment.

  “I’ll never make it home. I’m not going home. I’m not,” he cried. “Kill me! Kill me! Please,” he begged, in severe pain.