Fourteen

John’s head felt like someone had carefully been pushing cotton wool in through his nose all night. In his mind they might not have been doing it so carefully. It felt full, slightly remote and lethargic. The reason wasn’t too hard to work out. He had been smoking a lot of bazooka grade grass lately, the last night being particularly heavy. Many of the others enjoyed am evening smoke, though John was more partial to the herbal vapours than the average camp guest. Self-control was never a virtue many would link with him. He simply couldn’t help himself. The environment he found himself in demanded it. The stuff was growing in clearings and fields all around. John figured that there must be a strong commercial reason behind it all, given the huge numbers involved. There was no way these smoking herbs were wild. They looked too big and healthy for starters. Somebody was out there taking care of the little cuties, working a small horticultural miracle in the process, given the size and smell of the stuff. Whether his current hosts had anything to do with the crop was not known by John, questions weren’t encouraged, but as a betting man he would say it was a dead cert. They were certainly pretty hard-core, and to run any type of operation involving this number of plants, you would need to be serious about your reputation. This image reinforced the one he earlier made, soon after he had first been introduced to his new hosts. He was definitely lounging in the company of some very serious guys. They were heavy and as long as he kept from pissing them off too much the Kalashnikov crew could be counted on for hauling his ass out of danger.

Lying in his shaded hammock, he nearly missed the rustling that signified the appearance of his leading host. His current subdued state dulled the edges to some of his senses, though the chorus of singing insects muffled many softer sounds. In truth he felt no danger, far from it with his new gun totting acquaintances, so he often switched off, usually by dozing until around lunchtime. Today was no exception. He was idly scratching his nose before being aware of the imposing figure standing above him. He remembered well the time so recently when Pin was out driving with him. How could he ever forget a day like that. They had been chased and intercepted by the armed crazy dudes in the pickup truck. Shit scared and unable to think straight he had pissed himself. His one clear memory was how he marvelled at Pin, the way he kept so cool and mowed every last one of the bastards down. No one was that good, not outside of the films. It still blew John away each time he thought of it. He owed Pin for his life, though had still to get around to a formal acknowledgment or thanks. This was John’s way. He simply didn’t know how to, though his general arrogance would have stopped him even if he were more up on his etiquette skills.

From the little that he now knew about Pin, he was aware that the veteran campaigner was a proud member of the Hmong, a hill tribe from Northern Laos. Originally from China, they had always been treated as outsiders within Laos. During the Vietnam War, they had grouped together under the corrupt leadership of General Vang Pao and fought with covert American forces against the communist Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese Army. Naturally enough, when the war came to a close and the Pathet Lao pitched up as eventual winners, they were none too happy with the Hmong. In a bid to escape reprisals, many hopped over the border to Thailand and found themselves housed in huge refugee camps. Certain authorities there admired the Hmong’s anti-Communist stance and were carefully using choice battle gained skills in border incursions. The lucky ones with contacts and money were able to board one-way flights to America, clutching essential belongings and dreams. Those now remaining in Laos largely did so in hiding, fearful of being found and trampled on. Although government initiatives promised reconciliation and friendship, distrust dictated the way things were. Pin and his colleagues lived in virtual seclusion, hidden away in the vast jungles.

John also knew that Pin and his impressive band of followers were into something, a search for something hugely valuable and important to them. It was such a guarded and sensitive secret that conversations were carried out in hushed tones, huddled groups peering into the jungle as if on CCTV. He sensed they were getting close.

“Good morning John. I hope that you slept well?”

His host was always so formal and polite, no matter what state John found himself in. He could lay back with his pants on backwards and expect the same morning greeting.

“Thanks Pin. Just enjoying the morning here! You guys are so lucky, I mean having all of this to yourselves. It really is beautiful here.”

“Lucky is not a word that I would use, but yes, things could be worse. Here we still have our lives and independence.” Pin looked out at the Hmong camp as he spoke.

The politics were lost on John. He still marvelled at how good Pin’s English could be. He knew that in times past he had worked closely with the Americans, which went someway to explaining the slight accent. He could see that the Hmong warrior was preparing to tell him something, perhaps important. The fact that he was being included in anything serious surprised John. He was generally kept well out of the loop. It did not occur to him that it could be to do with manpower issues or a need to keep him occupied whilst the important stuff went on.

“We’re going to need you soon. We’re going to need everyone. Before long I will tell you a lot that you will have to know. There is something of great beauty and danger that we seek. When I tell you it will be too late to leave. You understand?”

“Whatever you say Pin. I’ll be more than happy to throw myself into any goose-chase with you guys. Will be good to earn my keep and that.”

Pin hated John’s oblivious flippancy, which was a trait John applied to many things. He was using their jungle retreat, the Hmongs home, as little more than a holiday camp, a place where he could relax and get stoned on the plentiful weed. Pin guessed that this was fine to a degree; after all he was a guest. Most backpackers journeying through Laos liked a smoke and that was fine, after all, it was their domestic brethren who provided them with a market. What really irked him was the sloth like laziness which accompanied John whether he were smoking or not. Because of this and his general arrogance, Pin took immediate dislike to John when their paths first crossed. This was not unusual, most people did. You then either intensified the dislike into pure hatred or mellowed towards his off-hand manner. Pin was undecided. He watched with growing scrutiny as the pale backpacker forced a grin and settled back to his empty agenda.

As Pin turned to leave there was a sharp crack, followed by a flurry of other shots. He could tell immediately that the shots were from different weapons. He knew also that the repeated fire pointed to automatic rifles. This was no hunting expedition. He turned his head in the direction from where the shots had rung out. More now followed. By his reckoning, the conflict was all taking place up on the main road that winded on towards Vang Vieng. That was around two miles from where their camp lay concealed. His mind was racing through a set of possibilities, the complete list of fucked up scenarios. In all probability the violent fracas up on the road had nothing to do with them. The shots were far enough away to back this up. The area was very rural, lots of patchy jungle and rocky outcrops providing open invitations for groups of bandits to plunder the road and quickly melt away. When he noticed the billowing smoke bellowing up above the tree line his mind was made up. Bandits or not, they were bringing chaos to his doorstep and imminent danger. It could even be a warm-up with their camp next on the dinner menu. Maybe right now fatigue dressed figures could be crouching to get a fix on their location, sights being polished for a clearer aim. This needed urgent attention. Carefully laid out plans for just such an occasion would be activated. He had his people to think of and needed to get the process moving very quickly.

He looked back down at John. Despite the smoke and obvious clatter of gunfire, the backpacker remained oblivious. Pin considered just leaving him and getting on with the pressing matters at hand, before remembering something very important.

“John? It looks like we might have company. I want you to go and get the girl. Find Louise and bring her here!” He then left, moving with a purposeful stride.