Thirty

Peter Vaughn was a man who took his job seriously. By his very nature, he was an outdoors man. Deep tanned forearms spoke of a person whose career path matched his aspirations. Decades in the wind and sun helped carve a dark weathered look, a skin no longer sensitive to bursts of rain or dry gusts of brittle wind. In this respect the plains treated him very well. Rising soon after sunrise, he would make his way to an isolated area of the plain, one which he had now been visiting for many weeks. Here he would stay going about his day just long enough to witness the beautiful sunsets, crimson light sign posting his way back to base. Rarely would he see more than a handful of people, most of those on the two mile walk to the town where he billeted himself.

Before him was the chromed arm for the detector. With so many pieces of shrapnel densely embedded, each square metre alerted him continually, audible bleeps exposing foreign bodies scattered deep within the grainy soil, until he might find traces of explosive, unstable and apt to rip apart any footsteps causing sudden movement from above. Most days he struck gold, unearthing many fragments of the anti-personnel mines buried like sleeping sharks. Not only was the Plain of Jars the most bombed place on the planet; it was also one of the most mined. Most were several decades past their used date and frequently blew off violently of their own accord. The job was one of the more dangerous and stressful on the UN statute books. Good applicants were hard to find. The health and safety manual seemed to skip the section on risk management.

Not that Peter worked for the UN anymore. That was left behind soon after retiring from his engineering regiment. These days he jokingly referred to himself as a charity worker, though admittedly not the type who wrote letters for good causes. His current employer was a local one, translated roughly as “Safety for All”. They specialised in mine detection, specifically on the plain, where they wouldn’t be short of work for many years to come. Most of the budget came from national and international bodies, enough to employ a number of western contractors full-time. Their brief was to carry out an active de-mining program; whilst passing on skills to an eager local population, happy to reclaim greater expanses of farmland from the lush plain and provide a safe haven for their children and livestock. Peter preferred to give brief demonstrations to handfuls of locals, though rarely took any out into the field. Here he worked alone. Partly this was because working a live minefield required utmost concentration, being an area of extreme mortal danger, but largely because he liked it this way.

Which was why he was particularly sensitive to strangers. In this part of the plain it was so quiet you could point out every animal crossing within a mile. People were a category to themselves. Human activity stood up like the hills around them. Nothing could go unnoticed to Peter.

Strange then that he should spy two unusual groups, both travelling in the same direction, an area even he had yet to map out and clear. Early in the day the trucks had arrived, old agricultural ones with canvas awnings and running boards. The thumping diesels scattered birds long before he made out the dust accompanying the small convoy. Figures ran before it, pushing rudimentary rollers chained up to ignite high level mines and unspent explosives. It was highly risky but surely they had their reasons. The route taken appeared to come under the direction of an enthusiastic local, easily identified by a light cotton tunic worn by many in this region for generations. With local knowledge they might stand half-a-chance of steering through the plain without losing most of their trucks and occupants in an eruption of spent explosive. Only half though.

The other party came later. They were less gracious in their arrival and far greater in number. Neither was Peter allowed the luxury of becoming a side-line witness. Powerful scopes and binoculars picked him out long before he might have been able to scuttle away to relative obscurity. Attitude and insignia gave away their identity. The secret police, PC38, was a body he preferred not to know. The red stripe on each lapel caused a momentary gulp. These were Blood Ravens, an exclusive renegade unit working to their own budget. Prior to his current contract in Laos he was blissfully unaware of their existence, no need to know otherwise. But perceptions changed with countries. Now his breathing quickened as they approached him along a mine swept track, lucky or knowledgeable in their choice of route. Their totalitarian approach to investigations did not exclude foreign contractors and businessmen. If he pissed them off a trip to their infamous interrogation suite in Vientiane would not be off the agenda. Even his international charity might take a few weeks to trace him before raising any sort of alarm. One charming trick accompanying their reputation was to throw a hooded detainee from a helicopter, arms bound. They were not to know that the helicopter was only flying six feet from the ground. A Ukrainian forger was reputedly being entertained within their premises this week. Probably refused to cut them in on his enterprising bond scam!

His only option was to watch and wait as a military jeep skirted the mine infected field he stood within and approached with full light beam on, horns blaring. A high calibre C10 rear mounted machine gun reminded him it would be impolite to move away. The aloof officer seated next to the driver introduced himself as Captain Vaenkeo. His excellent command of English suggested an expensive upbringing close to the communist elite; no doubt groomed from an early age to take on a powerful government post. The captain’s position within the notorious Blood Ravens could not have been earned through talent alone. A secretive unit did not advertise posts which were not supposed to exist. Appointment was strictly by invitation only. Applicants were judged on contacts, breeding and temperament. If you were able to sign out death warrants on request you were sure to impress the interview panel.

Sitting with the heavy sun on his back Peter quickly became a “yes” man. Hell, he didn’t even know who the other group was or what they were about. Why would he want to stick his head out with the ravens walking his patch of the plain.