Ready for a suspenseful thriller set in 1983 with a CIA agent?
Great! Then Operation DFC is for you.
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CHAPTER 1
Prepping - Bangkok, Thailand – June 1,
1983 – 2325 Local Time
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WEAT COATS EVERY INCH of my body,
courtesy of the oppressive heat and humidity. My shorts and thin t-shirt cling
to me like a second skin while unlocking the door of the small hotel room. I
immediately frown—the ancient unit is down for the count. Again. Had I made the
travel arrangements, this farce of a hotel would not have been among the realm
of possibilities for a place to rest my head. Chuckling, I step inside the
dreary space, and it crosses my mind that perhaps another reason I had been
recruited is because I grew up in southern Arkansas and the Agency assumed I
would acclimate to the sweltering heat in Southeast Asia easier than men born
above the Mason-Dixon line.
Birth
location does not matter—hot, humid air sucks the life out of you even if you
grew up around it.
A
roach the size of my palm skitters across my shoe precisely at the same time a
disgusting mixture of mold, stale body odor, human excrement, and
God-knows-what-else assaults me. No amount of training can properly prepare a
person for the wretched odors wafting from every crevice of this overcrowded
city full of poverty, disease, and human squalor.
Nothing
except being held captive in a similar environment.
The
putrid aromas bring back unwanted, horrendous memories of my previous
experiences in Asia. This is the first time I’ve been back since 1973. The
deep, ugly scar on my right arm throbs for some odd reason. I force the
memories to remain inside the locked vault of my mind where I’ve trapped them
for a decade. Part of me despises being here, yet the urge to complete the
mission and save my brothers wins out.
Heavy
footsteps and the squeaky voice of a young girl speaking in her native tongue
cause me to poke my head out and glance out the door. Fury burns through my
chest while eyeing a red-headed, freckle-faced Caucasian man, obviously fond of
fast food and fearful of the gym, strutting down the hallway. A young Asian
girl, tottering in heels she should not know how to walk in, is next to him.
The oaf senses my presence, glances over, winks while opening the door, and the
young girl slips inside. He joyfully follows.
It
takes all my intestinal fortitude to keep from following them and beating the
scumbag to death with my bare hands.
She’s
just a child.
The
urge to become justice for the wayward waif and rescue her from despair is
strong, but I cannot succumb to temptation. Too much is at stake for my
brothers to risk blowing my cover. Besides, the girl probably isn’t here on her
own free will, and if I kill the lecherous heathen who paid for her services,
her pimp will just send her to the next paying client. The contribution of
freeing one girl from a horrific evening of sexual abuse will be about as
fruitful as scooping out handfuls of sand, hoping to drain the ocean.
Pausing
for a split second while staring at the closed door, I listen to the sound of
his voice, noting the dialect—south Texas—no doubt. I imprint the tone and
cadence in my mind for use later.
One
handful of sand is one handful, right? It will be quite easy to dispose of a
body in this disgusting city…wait, no…not now. Damn, it’s only my first night
in Bangkok and I’m already plotting murder. I make a mental note to research
ol’ fat boy’s information later from the front desk when the clerk is otherwise
engaged. Once I know exactly what city in Texas the red-headed slimeball lives,
I will pay him a visit and castrate him like a feral dog.
What
I do on my own time is my business.
A
wicked smirk crosses my face while scanning the tiny space advertised as a
room. Nothing is amiss. All the sly traps I set to indicate someone came
snooping around while I was gone are intact. Satisfied I’m alone and nobody has
been inside, I lock the door behind me before setting the paper sack down on
the lone chair. After removing the wallet carrying my identity and passport, I
secure it inside the modified suitcase, one complete with a hidden compartment
inside the bowels, before retrieving the old set of flip-flops I’ve carried
with me for years.
Unsatisfied
the credentials are safe when not within arms-reach, I strip down, slide on the
flip-flops, and then pick up the suitcase and take four strides to the area in
the corner before setting it down inches away.
When
I checked in earlier, the desk clerk touted the accommodations as upgraded to
include a private bathroom.
What
a colossal joke.
There
is a toilet, sink, and a showerhead with knobs protruding directly from the
wall, but the area is void of any sort of door or curtain. Eating, sleeping,
and attending to bathroom business are all done in the open, and certainly not
for those who are shy or easily embarrassed. Of course, I am neither of those
things, so I remain unfazed by the situation because I’ve been in places that
make this shithole look like a palace.
Turning
the knob for cold water, the pipes rumble and groan behind the paper-thin walls
separating rooms before tepid liquid squirts out. Oh well, it is water, and
between it and the Irish Spring soap I packed, the stench of sex and poverty
from my brief excursion through Patpong will be removed from my pores. Plus,
noisy pipes will hopefully cover any sounds from the room across the hallway
that might make me rethink waiting to pay ol’ fat boy a visit when back
on American soil and attack now.
Too
bad the combination of soap and water won’t work on the odors trapped inside my
nasal cavity. It irritates the fire out of me that the operative I met earlier
set our meeting location smack dab in the middle of the red-light district. He
falsely assumed I was like every other American male and wanted to
partake in all the debauchery Bangkok is known for throughout the globe.
Pass.
My
trusty soldier will remain free of STDs. No way will I risk potentially
infecting Cathy with some disgusting venereal disease simply because I let my
libido take control of rational thought. No way. I’m a patient man, one fully
aware of the beautiful prize awaiting me back in North Carolina, and when I set
my mind on something, there is no changing it.
Bile
rises in the back of my throat while recalling the meeting. The operative,
“Oscar,” was a slender, dark-haired Asian man with beady eyes and body odor so
strong my eyes nearly watered while he handed me the bag with the items
required to complete the clandestine mission. Once the exchange happened, Oscar
offered to pay for me to stay and watch a ping-pong show.
Again,
pass.
I
heard fellow soldiers talk about the filthy, degrading shows in Bangkok when
they’d come back from R&R during my time in ’Nam years ago. Hearing about
it was bad enough—I have no desire to see it.
The
knowing smile on Oscar’s face and his lecherous gaze eyeballing girls, ones who
should be home playing with Barbies rather than performing sexually explicit
acts on stage in front of foul pedophiles, made me want to slam my fist into
his mouth so hard he’d shit teeth for days. I politely refused, feigning an
upset stomach from eating too much greasy noodles from a street vendor, and
promptly followed the statement with some well-acted retching.
While
rinsing my face, a deep sigh escapes my throat. I’m just a small pawn in a
worldwide game, not the one calling the shots, setting meeting logistics, or
even fully aware of all the intricacies of the mission known as Operation DFC.
My part is substantial since I am the one delivering the banking credentials, yet
I am in the dark on several things. I do not know the location of the POWs,
what branch of military will transport them to safety, or how they will get
home.
Most
of my superiors still consider me wet behind the ears because I’ve been with
the CIA for twenty-four months. I wholeheartedly disagree with their
assessment. The proper time is six years because I count the previous
forty-eight months spent crafting my cover story and the rigorous, sometimes
brutal, training I’ve endured. However, this is my first major operation—to
save POWs/MIAs—and the reason I joined the CIA.
Until
now, Dave Carter, whose
ridiculous code name, Jaguar, I refuse to address him by, gave me assignments a novice spy could
handle with ease, mainly courier tasks, because I possess a phenomenal memory.
I never record things that the wrong person or side could discover. I stash all
important intel inside my memory banks so only I can access them.
When
Dave informed me of this assignment, he said it would either make me or break
me. This was my big chance to prove myself worthy of being plucked from the
bowels of southern Arkansas to join this elite group. If successful, I would
lead future rescue missions—unless I am caught and blab.
I
had laughed in his smug face. “Nothing and nobody can make me talk. Period. End
of story.”
Dave
had given me an odd smirk. “So, you’re willing to die?”
In
a low, rumbling baritone, I’d answered, “Absolutely.”
What
I didn’t say was that I’d die for love, whether it be for all the broken
POWs/MIAs awaiting rescue, my country, my girl, my best friend, or my honor.
Dave had not earned my respect and, therefore, did not deserve to hear my
thoughts on personal matters.
Brought
back to the present after a final rinse, I turn off the water. Time to drip-dry
rather than risk using a towel supplied by the hotel, which might be full of
Third World microscopic organisms I prefer not to think about. I’ve already
experienced plenty of nastiness in Asia and am fully aware of the risks and how
to steer clear of them.
Glancing
down at the flip-flops, I chuckle to myself while padding over to the window. I
open it, hoping for a cool breeze. Instead, a burst of hot air and the stench
of urban decay greet me. No matter. Air is air, and I prefer suffering through
smelling the rankness rather than risking exposure to what potential gunk lies
in wait on the towel.
Captivity
in Asia turned me into a neurotic clean freak.
Several
glossy travel brochures rest, unopened, on an old dresser made from mahogany. I
give them a quick scan, scowling at the deceptive descriptions.
“Welcome
to the glorious capital of Thailand—Krung Thep. The City of Gods, the Great
City, the Residence of the Emerald Buddha, the Impregnable City of Ayutthaya of
God Indra, the Grand Capital of the World Endowed with Nine Precious Gems, the
Happy City Abounding in Enormous Royal Palaces Which Resemble the Heavenly
Abode Wherein Dwell the Reincarnated Gods, a City Given by Indra and Built by
Vishnakarm. The City of Angels opens her arms, embraces you, and urges you to
enjoy her magnificence.”
City
of Angels, my ass. How can a place that touts itself so highly be immersed in
such evil?
My
keen gaze skims the nighttime skyline of Bangkok. Sparkly, multi-colored lights
beckon visitors like a siren’s call, yet they do not reveal the evil lurking in
the shadows.
Turning
my body toward the mirror bolted on the wall to the right, I glance quickly
past the old scars on my chest, arms, and legs. Years of arduous workouts to
regain muscle mass, coupled with healthy eating habits and a myriad of daily
multivitamins, revived my once emaciated frame and helped to keep the dark
memories of my previous life at bay.
Cathy
is fond of saying I’m well-built yet not an over-the-top body builder type,
though sometimes she worries that’s where I’m headed—gym rat. I laugh every
time she says this, countering I look every bit the part of a lean, powerful
man who works outside with his hands in the dirt under the scorching sun.
The
overhead light catches a few flecks of silver interspersed between the black
hair at my temples. I notice a few new wrinkles around the eyes and forehead.
Cathy thinks I look distinguished and that the grays and lines have helped
soften the angular edges of my chin, nose, and cheeks.
I
see what she means, but there are significant portions of my previous life she
is not aware of, including the fact that enduring excruciating pain changed my
eye color from vibrant blue to a strange, dull shade of hazel. She does not
know I’m a former POW or my real name, only that I served in the Army, and
attended college with her cousin. After the first time we were intimate years
ago and she saw the scars, I told her a partial truth: They were from my
abusive father, and discussing my childhood was off limits.
I’ll
never forget her response, spoken in her sweet North Carolina drawl while her
delicate fingers caressed my cheek: “Heartache and abuse come in many forms,
and sometimes, the hardest battles are fought inside the home. I’m sorry, babe,
that you endured such a rough upbringing, but that’s your past, not your
future.”
Thinking
about Cathy makes me smile. She’s kind, nurturing, patient, and flourishes as a
nurse. The woman’s heart is pure, and she loves me. Damaged, broken me. One
day, perhaps after I retire, I’ll break down and tell her all the things I’ve
hidden for years.
She
deserves that and so much more.
“Thank
you, God, for putting Cathy in my path. Thank you.”
Leaning closer to the mirror, I survey what the ravages of time, grief, starvation, and misery have done to me. Not too bad considering in a few months, I’ll be thirty-one, which seems odd to think about because for two years straight, I never knew if I’d wake up to see another sunrise. The last twelve years of my nomadic, crazy life drift through my thoughts while I wait for the reeking air to dry my skin.
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