Wearing rain-soaked dark green field uniforms, now devoid of all identifiable insignias and patches, two armed guards patrolled the hillside, carrying G3 rifles. A G3, developed in the 1950s by Heckler & Koch (H&K), was a selective-fire automatic weapon that used a roller-delayed blowback operating system. The battle rifle had a rate of fire of 500–600 rounds a minute with a 550 yard range.
The guards stepped carefully on dead leaves, ferns, palm fronds, as they wove their way in and out of thick vegetation on the hillside, seventy feet above the creek and shacks. A steady rain two hours earlier left the ground underneath slippery and muddied.
A sound of an aircraft brought them to a standstill, as they looked overhead, and aimed their weapons at the oncoming plane. Flying less than 100 feet above the trees, the dark gray plane was making its final approach. The guards recognized it, but continued watching until it disappeared over the trees. One of the guards signaled the men below with two short whistles. They'd expect the pilot to show up within 45 minutes.
The plane, an O-2A Skymaster, known as "Oscar Deuce," was the military version of a Cessna 337. During the Vietnam War the Skymaster served as a FAC (forward air control) aircraft, ensuring the safety of friendly troops on the ground. It also maintained a night mission role. A low-cost, twin-engine piston-powered aircraft, it had a single engine in the nose and one in the rear of the fuselage. Under each wing was a 7.62mm mini-gun, using 7.62mm NATO ammo, and could fire up to 4,000 rounds per minute without overheating.
The plane was one of many aircraft turned over to the Vietnamese after the war, then wound up for sale on the black market. Mini-guns were removed, and sold separately. Sales were brisk, especially since the price was cheap, and almost anyone could fly it after a few lessons.
An old dirt road, cut through the forest by the Japanese during World War II, had taken direct hits from American bombs, obliterating a two-mile stretch. Years later, a small creek branched off from where the shacks were built, making transportation by boat convenient.
The untouched road had recently been converted to a makeshift runway. But touchdown was critical before passing a stand of bamboo; otherwise, a nosedive into the creek was possible.
Mitch Banyon lined up the Skymaster, adjusted flaps, corrected airspeed. With only a few feet from touchdown, he powered back and leveled off. Tires hit dirt, splashed through puddles. He stomped on the brakes, struggling to bring the aircraft to a stop. Every landing made his palms sweat, and this one was no exception. With 50 yards to spare, he turned the plane, readying it for his next departure.
Once he finished the checklist, he surveyed the perimeter. Except for forest creatures scurrying about, and birds settling again on perches, the area was clear. He slid the .38 from his shoulder holster, checked the cylinder, then shoved the weapon back in. He glanced over his shoulder. Since he'd removed the rear passenger seats, storage capacity had doubled.
He put on his drab green cap, grabbed his canteen, then scooted across the right seat and got out. Hooking the canteen on his belt, he scanned the area one last time, listening for any sounds not typical for the rainforest. Feeling it was safe, he began his usual quarter mile trek along a path that had nearly been wiped out by heavy rains, but he was still making good time. His delivery had gone off without a hitch, and his turnaround time was quicker than expected. But the long flight was never one he looked forward to.
He trudged through the forest, pushing aside small branches dangling across the path. Large rain droplets slid off palm leaves, splashing on his cap. His short-sleeve, green T-shirt didn't give his arms much protection from sharp brush and insects, but his summer-weight camies and ankle-high boots protected his body and legs.
This place is as miserable as that shithole, Vietnam, he thought disgustedly. Tree canopies were so tall and thick they could wipe out all forms of light. Pungent smells from rotting vegetation and dead animals permeated the air. He no longer worried about booby traps, only 18' pythons falling from trees, or Russel's vipers, or Asiatic king cobras, two of the deadliest snakes in the world.
Mitch Banyon, former U.S. Army sergeant, officially listed as M.I.A. Mitch Banyon — deserter. During his second tour in Vietnam, and after being in-country three months, he went on R&R to Bangkok, staying at the Windsor Hotel. Massage parlors and escort services were plentiful in the city. After an evening with an escort, Banyon decided to walk away from the Army, wiping out his previous life.
Once his decision to desert had been made, his immediate concern was to distance himself from Bangkok. At nearly 6' tall, he stood out among the residents of the city. A tattoo on his left upper arm — crossed rifles intertwined with a rattlesnake — was easy for someone to identify. He opted to let his straight, light brown hair grow, now hanging halfway to his shoulders.
The quickest, easiest destination for him was Burma, where he could "get lost" with little effort. Burma. Where he discovered a drug called yaba, not to use, but to sell. In the beginning, selling yaba enabled him to barely eke out an existence. Then an opportunity came out of nowhere.
He'd been living in a hut along the Southwest Coast, just outside the town of Kampong Tengah. His supplier would drop off one carton of yaba twice a month, with each carton holding 200 of the 6mm pills. Who he sold them to, the price and quantity, was left entirely up to him.
Four months earlier he was approached by someone who called himself "Hawk." The man had observed him for weeks, selling and distributing the yaba. Then, after eliminating several other potential distributors, Hawk made him the offer. Instead of selling, he'd be delivering to prearranged destinations, flying Hawk's Skymaster.
Depending on the distance, his only responsibility was flying the drugs to one or two locations a week, then unload. The risk would be greater, of course, but Banyon considered himself a risk-taker. He'd survived Vietnam, he could survive this — and make more money than he ever imagined. All tax free.
He had packed his duffle bag, then moved to the village near the airfield. Holcomb had arranged for him to rent a room behind a small, open-air eatery, the only one in the village that served alcohol. Banyon told himself the dark and dingy room would have to suffice until he saved enough money to buy his own pole house.
Emerging from the jungle, he finally saw the clearing and waterway. One guard, sitting on a roof, remained in plain sight. Banyon approached cautiously, even though his flyover signaled his arrival. Standing close to the muddy shoreline, he took out a small red cloth, and held it high overhead.
A moment later, a Burmese he only knew by the name "Myint" walked out of the end shack, motioning for him to cross. Though small in stature, the 5'3" man maintained total control over his men, primarily because of the accuracy and speed with which he handled his machete. He rested his hand on the weapon hanging from his rope belt in a handmade leather sheath. The bolo-style weapon had a "fat" point toward the tip that shifted the weight forward when swung. Cracking open a coconut, chopping down a tree, cutting off body parts was done with ease and precision.
Tucking the cloth into his back pocket, Banyon walked toward the rope bridge, made with wooden slats, barely three feet wide, and strung five feet above the water. Crossing was quicker than using a boat — and easier to demolish.
He was cautious as he walked across the swaying bridge, but he was able to get a quick glance at the shacks, noticing four boys, no more than ten years old, sitting cross-legged on the deck, the same ones he saw the first time he arrived. With close-cropped hair, and dressed in tattered shirts and shorts, the boys eyed him cautiously. He never heard them laugh, or even talk. An expression of sadness remained on their small faces.