Hal added, “You’ll also have a translator to help with the radios. That’s important—if things go bad.”
Ridge turned to Hal. “Could be a problem. Only two seats in the bird. One for the pilot, one for the observer or camera operator. The rest of the cockpit is filled with radios. Dead weight that already makes the plane extremely heavy for takeoff.
“We have a perfect work-around,” said Hal. Just then, a knock at the door. In came Hal’s assistant, with a ten-year-old Laotian boy. “Eric, Sharon—your translator,” said Hal. “Mr. Pao’s first name is Tee. He’ll have no trouble squeezing in back, between the radios.”
The boy shook hands with Ridge and Sharon one at a time, very business-like. Then he said, “When do we go?”
Hal eyed all three and said, “You take off at ten-hundred tomorrow.”
The next morning Ridge and Sharon wore black flight suits the CIA had procured from the Thai Air Force. No insignia. In fact, Ridge had to leave his dog tags behind. Officially, with no U.S. military presence in Laos, tags were out. The only difference in how Sharon and Ridge dressed was that he wore a shoulder harness with a nine-millimeter Beretta. She had a waist belt that led to a leg holster with a .38 pistol strapped to her right thigh. Tee, on the other hand, dressed like a ten-year-old Laotian boy. Shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. If anything went wrong, he’d simply disappear into the background.
They loaded up and took the runway. Throttles in, they rolled and rolled a long time, and finally broke ground. Ridge waited for more altitude, and then pulled up the gear handle. During climb out, he checked on Sharon and turned to see the boy. Tee still sat in the makeshift seat belt they had strung between the radio banks, and Ridge asked, “You OK?”
“For sure,” said the boy. “I’ve been in helicopters, but this is different—smoother—more fun!”
Flying due east, fifty minutes later, Sharon Nelson called out, “I see it. Building at two o’clock about 10 klicks. Big red cross on top.”
“Klick? What’s a klick?” asked Tee.
“About a mile,” Ridge told him. “Cameras ready?”
Sharon nodded. “All set.”
“OK, let’s circle to the north. Maybe we’ll hear something on these fancy CIA radios.” As Ridge flew wide, Sharon turned to frequencies Hal had given them but they heard only static or silence. “Let’s take it in closer then,” said Ridge. “Descending to 1500 feet.”
“OK,” Sharon said, “but let’s get some distance shots before moving in on target.”
At 1500 feet above ground, Ridge banked the plane right toward Sharon to give her camera angle. He began to circle the building wide to the south. But as soon as Sharon started clicking, all hell broke loose. Fifty-caliber tracer bullets engulfed the plane with twenty or thirty streams of deadly light. They seemed everywhere. But the streaks came mainly from an area less than a klick south of the building. Ridge yanked the wheel left. He dove to get speed for a hard pull up north to escape the guns. Then, two loud clanks. “We’re hit, tighten seat belts,” ordered Ridge.
Then, three more impacts. The front engine died—followed by Number 2. Restarts. Nothing. Again. Zilch. Ridge feathered the props to reduce drag. He finessed the plane to a glide path to get as far north as possible. They continued to drop.
“Only jungle below,” Ridge gritted out through clenched teeth. “Get set for tree impact.”
Then he saw it—a river, about the width of three lanes of traffic. He banked hard. They fell like a rock. Ridge leveled wings and aimed for the river. Just above water, he pulled up, last minute, and then pushed the nose over for a level belly flop. Water sprayed everywhere, blinding him. But Ridge felt the right wing going down. He shoved the wheel full left. The bird leveled out, continued skidding like a runaway surfboard, and whacked the right riverbank. The plane leaped, smashed into the jungle, and screeched to a stop. Ridge searched frantically for fire. None. He twisted to Sharon and Tee and said, “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
Moments later, he grabbed the machete and followed Sharon and Tee to the ground. The sun, nearly overhead, blasted heat, but he remembered his survival training. They had to disappear. Into deeper jungle. Stay away from rivers and trails where Pathet Lao would search. As they penetrated intense growth, Ridge swung the machete lightly, to minimize noise, and tried to move westerly toward the Mekong River. But maintaining direction was a bear. The sun overhead was no help, and beneath the jungle canopy moss grew everywhere, not just on the north side of trees. Progress became slow and painful, especially for Ridge’s six-foot two-inch frame. Even Sharon at five-foot-five and four-foot Tee had to crawl at times to make it through twisted thickets and around marshy bottoms.
Fighting jungle and heat, after several hours, Ridge became more and more disoriented cutting and slashing his way through the undergrowth. Sharon, with huge purple-blue bruises on her face from hitting the camera equipment during landing, fared no better. Yet despite the pain and confusion, they continued for several more hours, hacking the jungle from within.
Suddenly Ridge stopped and whispered, “Sounds ahead.” All three silently crawled forward and peered through thick growth. Ridge muttered, “Goddammit, got turned around. There’s the goddamn building.” They all gazed up to the red cross on the metal roof. “At least it’s the north side,” said Ridge, glancing at the sun lower in the sky to his right. “And….”
Before he could finish, a woman screamed.
Tee stared at Ridge and Sharon. “We gotta help.”
Ridge fired back. “We’ve got specific orders. If we go down, we get our butts out of Laos—ASAP—no delays, no exceptions.”
Sharon touching the deep purple part of bruises on her face said, “We just can’t ignore that scream.”
Ridge, pulled inside out, stared up at the sky. Hesitated. And then nodded. “Hell. Shit on orders. It’s the right thing to do.”
At the building, Ridge held his Beretta ready-to-go as he peered in at the lower left of the big window. Sharon, with her .38 out, kneeled near the other side of the glass. Tee had been told to stay back—at the jungle’s edge.
“Damn,” whispered Ridge, trying to steel himself, “there’s a guy hanging by his arms—from the ceiling. Feet off the ground. Face covered in blood. Rod or spear through his belly. Dead. Very dead.” Before Sharon could respond, there was another scream. Ridge stared to the left through the window. “Two guys…knives… raping a woman.” Sharon jerked her head to Ridge’s left, toward a closed door. He nodded slowly, and whispered, “I’ve got the guy on the left.”
Ridge and Sharon positioned outside the door. Kicking in together, they charged with guns straight ahead. But neither could fire—without possibly hitting the girl. So Sharon continued running at the rapist on the right, who pulled his victim closer. He threw a knife with his free hand, planting it in Sharon’s left side. She continued to charge, right arm straight out, pistol in hand. When close enough she fired. Blood splattered from the man’s throat as he caved to the ground.
At the same moment, Ridge dropped to a prone position. He stretched out with two hands around his pistol and put a bullet through the forehead of the other rapist. The big man collapsed with a thud. Then the woman, her nurse’s uniform ripped to the waist, got up and ran to Sharon. Before Ridge could get there, she tore off the bottom of her skirt, yanked the knife from Sharon’s side, and tightly wrapped the wound. Then, she pushed in to stop the bleeding, and stared at Sharon’s eyes. Pointing at herself with her free hand she said, “Lani.”
Just then, Tee ran up to the open door, jumping up and down. “Uncle Sand, CIA helicopter! Hurry. Hurry!” Seconds later, a Laotian man, a few years older than Ridge, stood at the door. Tee grabbed the man around the hips with a wide smile. “My Uncle Sand. But—we must hurry! Helicopter through jungle to north. Pathet Lao to south. Hurry. Hurry!”
All four followed Sand through the jungle. It was particularly hard on Sharon, but Lani never stopped putting pressure on the knife wound. Twenty minutes later they saw a small chopper, hovering above a tiny clearing, with a rope ladder hanging from its belly and its end near the ground. Tee explained that only Sharon and Lani could get in the helicopter, “No more room. Eric—you, Uncle, me—we ride ladder. Hurry. Hurry!”
Once everyone got in position, the chopper moved out fast to the north. Then west to the Mekong River and Thailand. As airflow smashed his face, Ridge hung onto the rungs with Tee above, Sand below, and Sharon and Lani safely in the chopper. He thought, Thank God. We’re outta there. Then as he glimpsed up and down again at Tee and Sand, the wind nearly blinding him, his mind flashed to his favorite movie Casablanca. He clutched the ladder and whispered to the wind, “Yeah, could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
On Wednesday morning, Terry rushed into Ridge’s office. “I’ve got a plan, and I think it’s a winner.”
“Go slow, compadre. Had a really bad night.”
“Tomorrow, I’m investigating.”
“Tomorrow? You can investigate today if you want. It’s your thing, isn’t it?”
“No, no. I mean I’m going up to Montecito tomorrow to investigate Gimuldin’s place—12 Oaken Drive. Only piece on the board we haven’t moved. We’ve gotta lay eyes on it.”
Ridge shook his head until it hurt. “Didn’t we promise each other? No more solo to Santa Barbara county. Our history there sucks. And I’m tied up with those delayed Toyota depositions downtown. The damn things are scheduled for Thursday and Friday.”
