Tunnel Rats Read online

  “We can’t. But then, that’s one of the reasons why you’re here,” she says. “To find out which hotel in which city and when.”

  “Channy will be careful not to make mention of it on the internet,” Sam adds. “It might be next to impossible to find out without snatching him up and interrogating him.”

  “We need to observe him first. Find out his contacts and his leads. We need information that can only be obtained on the ground. Do you understand?”

  I stumble into town just like a sacred cow, visions of swastikas in my head . . .

  She unstraddles his waist and starts working on the backs of his thighs. It hurts, but it also feels like heaven.

  “I do,” Sam affirms. “Problem is, I’m more of a security guy than a spook. This is all a little new to me.”

  “I’ll be your asset on this mission. I will help you the entire way.”

  Sam lifts his head and tries to get a look at her over his shoulder.

  “You’re coming with me?” he asks.

  “Channy will be speaking with his people tonight. We’ll listen in on his conversation together from the hotel room next door. It’s all being arranged right now, as you already know. Tonight, after you have a few drinks, Channy will make an excuse for skipping dinner, and he’ll retire to his room. I’ll text you when it’s safe, and then you can meet me in room five-zero-six.”

  “The surveillance room,” Sam says.

  “Exactly,” she replies. Then, “Now, please turn over.”

  Sam is aware just how red his face is. The loose-fitting pajamas are sticking up like a pup tent.

  “Happy to see me, are we, Mr. Savage?” Cindy asks.

  “Maybe it’s time you refer to me as Sam,” he says.

  “Okay, Sam,” she says. “Tell you what. I think it’s time to take the pajama bottoms off, don’t you?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” he says with a half-cocked grin.

  Oh, baby, just you shut your mouth . . .

  After untying the knot on Sam’s shorts, Cindy slowly pulls down the pajama bottoms, exposing his full staff. Removing her t-shirt, she reaches around her back, unsnaps her bra, allows it to fall to the mattress. She then unbuttons her shorts and pulls them, along with her panties down to her knees. She slips them off and then straddles Sam once more across his thighs this time. He lustfully gazes at her body—her pert breasts, her long hard nipples reaching toward him, her flat belly, and her trimmed dark pussy. He can feel himself growing harder if that’s at all possible.

  She takes his erection in her capable hands and begins to pump it, slowly at first but then faster and faster. Sam knows if she keeps the pace up, the fun will end before it really starts. He reaches out, grabs hold of her waist, and flips her onto her back. Their mouths collide, and their tongues play with one another. His hands explore her firm body and her pert breasts.

  “I want you inside me, Sam,” she whispers. “I need you inside me.”

  Sam does as he’s instructed without hesitation. Her warm tightness surrounds him, and he tries to be gentle and tender, but she pleads with him to go faster and harder.

  “Don’t stop,” she begs. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  Sam kisses her and holds her as tightly as he can without breaking her. When he knows she’s reaching the point of ecstasy from which there is no return, he releases everything that’s been building inside him. She begins to scream, and he has no choice but to place his hand over her mouth while he thrusts himself against her until he’s emptied and she, too, is finished. When they have both exhausted themselves, he slowly, carefully, removes his hand from her mouth, and he rolls over onto his back. Staring at the ceiling fan, he catches his breath. For the first time, he’s aware of the sweat that coats his body. He slips his hand around her hand and squeezes.

  “Is that your idea of a happy ending?” he says, after a time, not without a laugh. “Because if it is, I want another.”

  She releases his hand, rolls onto her side and faces him. With one hand propping her head, she uses the other to tickle him.

  “You owe extra for big boom boom,” she says in a mock Thai voice.

  “I’ll be sure to put in for it at the agency,” he says. “Naturally, I’ll need a receipt.”

  “Per department SOP,” she says, giggling. Then, looking at her watch. “Our boy, Channy, should have had his own happy ending by now,” she says. “Time for you to go back to being his BFF,” she adds with a teasing tone.

  They both get up and get dressed.

  “I’ll see you in a couple hours,” he says. “In the meantime, how do I get a hold of you? I don’t have a phone number or email.”

  She pulls her hair up and reapplies the pins to keep it in place.

  “Like I told you, I’ll get in touch with you,” she instructs.

  “Wham bam see you, Sam,” Sam says, wide-eyed. “I think I’m in love with my coworker.”

  He pulls her to him and steals one last kiss. But she pushes him off, smiling wryly.

  “Another department rule,” she says. “No falling in love with the asset.”

  Sam turns for the door. “But there’s nothing that says I can’t fall for the asset’s ass,” he says. “Get it?”

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head as she points him out the door with a smile. “Go.”

  Opening the door, he descends the stairs to the reception area, one happy go lucky Sky Marshal.

  Sam finds Channy waiting for him on the steps to the massage parlor. The POI is laughing it up with some of the girls seated there, enjoying the night. One of them is eating what appears to be rice and fish from a ceramic bowl, another is smoking a cigarette. They are pretty girls, all of them wearing the Cindy’s Massage Parlor signature, if not uniform, tight shorts and black t-shirt. Drunk young college-age men walk by in shorts and t-shirts and whistle at the girls. In turn, the girls invite them in for massages.

  “You get happy ending,” one shouts. “You get boom boom. Good price, American boy.”

  Sam offers Channy a friendly pat on the back. “Did the earth shake, my friend?” he asks.

  Channy gives him an annoyed gaze. “Your generosity is much appreciated, Sam.”

  “That answers that,” Sam states. Then, “How about a couple of beers and dinner?”

  Channy nods. “Beer is on me,” he says.

  Together, the two head down the street to a nearby bar as though they are best buddies.

  The bar’s French doors are wide open, and patrons sit outside at wood tables enjoying the heavy, but somehow pleasant, humid evening air. A young slim Thai man working the tables offers the pair an open table situated beside a metal fan which is mounted to the exterior wall. Sam and Channy order Singha beers which are delivered almost instantly.

  For a while, the two remain quiet while condensation builds on their beer bottles.

  “Savage,” Channy says after a time. “Such a strong name.”

  “My father gave it to me,” Sam says while taking a swig of the cold refreshing beer. “His father gave it to him and so and so on.”

  For a split second, Sam thinks that maybe he should have gone with a fake name for this mission. But then, knowing his position with the Sky Marshals and Homeland Security is top secret and that his agency has already spread fake news on the internet about his work as a cardboard box salesman, he knows he has nothing to worry about. Even if Channy gets suspicious and runs an internet check, Google will refer to Sam as what he says he is—just another American salesman looking to make a killing selling cardboard boxes to the ChiComs. In fact, the computer programmers at DHS are so good at creating profiles and identities of Marshals and Spooks like Sam, they can even doctor photos to make it look like Sam is giving a speech to the National Association of Cardboard Box Manufacturers, or a snapshot of him attending a Rotary luncheon while receiving an award for the most monthly sales.

  “What about you, Channy?” Sam asks. “Do you have a family? A wife?”

&nb
sp; Channy carefully sips his beer, contemplatively gazes out at the street filled with people from all over the world along with food vendors and their lantern-lit cars, and tuck-tucks skillfully motoring in between them.

  “I have recently taken a wife,” Channy admits. “She is presently living with my parents in a small village near Cu Chi in Vietnam.”

  Sam’s history comes back to him. “Cu Chi,” he repeats, pronouncing Cu like Chu. “That was an important American target during the war if my history serves me correct.”

  Channy looks Sam in the eye.

  “The Americans dropped thousands of kilos of bombs on the village and surrounding countryside. It was once a beautiful place—a place to take a long country holiday along the Saigon River—but it was utterly destroyed after the American war machine was finished with it. My family was forced to live and defend themselves underground in a network of tunnels and bunkers. They were tunnel rats.” He drinks down his beer, slaps the empty onto the table, and smiles slyly. “But in the end, we achieved total victory over the Americans in Cu Chi.”

  Sam sips his beer. Already he wants another. “I don’t remember,” he says. “I was too young. All I can go by is what they taught us in American History class.”

  “I wasn’t born,” Channy admits. “But I feel like I was there fighting beside my father and mother, my grandfather and grandmother. War against your home isn’t something you’re taught in schoolbooks or classrooms. It is something that is discussed and felt in one’s own home at the dinner table. It is something that never goes away. It is always with you, touching you and tormenting you. The French and American wars are a big part of me and my soul, Sam.”

  He’s getting philosophical, Sam thinks. He’s convincing himself that the deadly assignment he’s about to carry out in Ho Chi Minh is not only justified, but a long time coming.

  Sam orders two more beers.

  “So, tell me, Channy,” he says, “what exactly do you do for a living?”

  The beers arrive, and the empties are taken away. Channy swigs a drink of his fresh beer, sets the bottle gently down on the table.

  “You sure do ask a lot of questions for a cardboard box salesman,” he says, his eyes not focused on Sam, but back out on the busy street.

  “Well, it’s like I said,” Sam says. “It’s my way of getting to know people better.”

  “Is giving out free happy ending massages one of your ways too?”

  “Sure, why not? Nothing wrong with spreading around a little happiness. And besides, what happens in Bangkok stays in Bangkok.”

  Sam reaches for his smartphone in his rear jeans’ pocket. It’s as if his phone has vibrated and alerted him to either an incoming call or a text. Gazing at the screen, he shakes his head.

  “Oh no,” he says. “Just got an alert from my CNN app. Three confirmed dead at a bombing outside the American embassy in Beijing.”

  “I wasn’t aware of a bombing,” Channy says, not without a smile.

  The smile tells Sam that Channy is lying.

  “Apparently, it just happened,” Sam says, anger in his voice. “I wonder who’s responsible? Which cowardly bastards?”

  “Cowardly bastards, Sam?” Channy asks.

  Sam hesitates a beat. Then, “Certainly you can’t defend someone or something that bombs innocent civilians, Channy. That’s the action of terrorists. Blood-thirsty murderers and barbarians.”

  Sam senses he has to tread lightly. He’s trying to get a rise out of Channy, maybe get him to a place where he will reveal some morsel of intelligence about his Bangkok connections. On the other hand, Sam must be careful not to alienate himself from the suspected terrorist.

  Channy drinks some beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Sometimes, extraordinary measures are required to capture the world’s attention. Many years ago, the Americans didn’t think of themselves as terrorists when they dropped bombs on my family and many other families in Cu Chi. They thought of themselves as the good guys. The Communist killers. But in fact, they were killing scores of innocent men, women, and children. Doing it purely for political reasons. Not to conquer land or defend the world against a fanatical tyrant like Hitler.”

  Sam has to admit, Channy has a point. The Sky Marshal loves his country and has been to war in more than one overseas hotspot to defend it and preserve its precious freedoms. But the senseless bombings of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos in the late sixties and early seventies was not exactly the proudest moment in U.S. history.

  “Politics will be the death of us all, Channy,” Sam says, raising his bottle as though making a toast not to a happy occasion, but to a profoundly sad one.

  Drinking what’s left of his beer, Channy reaches into his short’s pocket, pulls out a few baht, leaves them on the table, stands.

  “I believe I am more tired than I thought, Sam,” he says. “It must be the beer combined with the heat. If you’ll pardon me, I think I am going to have room service for dinner and then call it an early night.”

  “You sure, Channy? The night is just getting started. I thought we might head down to Cowboy Soi and enjoy boom boom, round two.”

  Channy laughs. “My sincerest thank you for boom boom round one. Goodnight, Sam.”

  The POI turns and walks away.

  “Goodnight, Channy,” Sam says. “See you soon, I hope.”

  Channy doesn’t know Sam will be seeing him a lot sooner than the NVC terrorist can possibly imagine.

  Sam makes certain Channy left enough baht to pay the bill. Checking his phone, he searches for a text from Cindy. Still nothing. He decides to head across the street for dinner to a small restaurant that sells pho. He sits at an open-air counter and eats the delicious rice noodles drowned in chicken broth while drinking another cold Singha beer. The delicious hot broth makes his forehead bead with sweat while each sip of the beer cools him down. It is a wonderful give and take of flavors and a surprisingly pleasant contrast of temperatures. When he’s finished, he heads back to the hotel and his room on the fifth floor and waits for the text that is sure to come any minute.

  When it does, he straps his .45 to his hip. Pulling a light blue blazer from his travel bag, he slips it on, allowing it to conceal the pistol. He then grabs an extra magazine and stores it in his jacket pocket. The small 9mm from the safe is already strapped to one ankle and the fighting knife strapped to his other. He is a walking fortress.

  Stuffing his key card into his pocket, he heads out of the room, praying he won’t run into Channy in the hall. But if he does, he would just have to make something stupid up. He would tell the suspected terrorist he had to come back to the room to use the bathroom or perhaps to get more money. Something along those lines.

  But as luck would have it, Sam is able to reach room 506 without a hitch. Pulling the keycard for the room, he taps it against the electronic reader. The lock opens allowing Sam to enter. The place is dimly lit, and Cindy is seated at the desk before a laptop, her ears covered with a pair of black Phillips headphones.

  The little lovely is already busy at work.

  Sam closes the door behind him and locks the deadbolt. Removing his jacket, he sets it on the bed and takes a cursory glance at the room and the electronic surveillance equipment that was surely delivered by Trah Bing. He also spots the small hole in the wall that separates the room from Channy’s and the black cable fed micro camera that has been placed in it.

  “Whatta we got so far?” he begs of Cindy.

  She quickly brings an extended index finger to her mouth like she’s shushing him. She points to the second set of headphones, telling him to put them on, which he does. Gazing at the computer screen, he sees Channy seated on his bed with a laptop set in his lap. He’s speaking with someone on the computer via Skype. It’s not all that easy to make out the Skyped man’s face in the glare from the artificial light against the laptop screen, but he appears to be Asian.

  “Seven AM, Ahn Dung, the Thai/Myanmar border,” Channy sa
ys. “The Kwai Bridge train station in Kanchanaburi. The train will take us around the gorge to the boathouses. From there, we load the trucks and head to the Cambodian border.”

  Since Channy is wearing earbuds, it’s impossible for he and Cindy to hear what’s being said by Channy’s contact. But at least they have the contact’s name and the apparent location of the weapons acquisition. Sam glances at Cindy. Her eyes are glued to the screen. She writes something down on the hotel stationary, slides it across the desk to Sam.

  He reads, Ahn Dung. 7 AM. Thai border. Kwai River station @ Kanchanaburi . . . arms/explosives drop.

  He folds the stationary, places it in his shirt pocket. Both pairs of eyes back on the computer, they observe Channy end his conversation with Ahn Dung. They watch him close the laptop then ready himself for bed by brushing his teeth and undressing down to his underwear. When the terrorist slips into bed and shuts off the bedside lamp, the hotel room goes silent. That’s when Cindy removes her headphones. Sam does the same.

  “It’s going to be an early morning, Sam,” she says while retrieving her smartphone from the desk.

  “We should get some rest,” he says. “Can you arrange a driver, Cindy?”

  “What do you think I’m doing, Sam?”

  He can’t help but laugh on the inside. Cindy is beautiful and soft to the touch, he thinks. But she can be hard as a rock too.

  “Okay,” she goes on after a long beat. “The driver will pick us up at three AM. That should give us plenty of time to get to the border before Channy does.”

  “Good thinking,” Sam says. “We’ll be waiting for him when he gets there. We’ll take as many photos as we can, record what we can, and feed it back to DC.”

  “Then we keep a tail on the POI,” Cindy adds.

  “What about your massage parlor?” Sam inquires.

  “Sapphire runs the show when I’m not around,” she says. “She knows the business inside and out. She is my asset while on the ground in South East Asia.”

  Sam glances at his watch. “A whole bunch of hours to kill,” he says. “Anything special you’d like to do?”