Children as young as nine were sold to the Burmese army and rebel groups for as little as $40, some food, or gasoline. He remembered thinking that these kids were luckier than some who were given a minimum of training, handed rifles, then sent to the front lines in the ongoing battle against the government.
He stepped off the bridge and onto the shack's rickety wooden deck, but he was unable to avoid blotches of fresh, blood-colored stains — betel quid. Similar in use as chewing tobacco, a wad is placed between the cheek and teeth, then pressed with the tongue to allow sucking and chewing, over time resulting in red-stained lips and blackened teeth.
Myint, who knew only a few words of English, backed away from the doorway, motioning for Banyon to enter. Even though he'd met Banyon more than once, to him the American was still an "outsider" and suspicion was a constant factor.
As Banyon walked inside the shack, the pungent smells immediately hit his senses. Fermented palm juice and a distilled rice-based solution was turned into an alcoholic beverage; fried fish skins; pungent fish soup, and a putrid-smelling paste made from dead fish buried and fermented underground for a week. Breathing through his mouth was a temporary fix.
"What's wrong, Banyon? Still not used to the pleasing aromas?" Sonny Holcomb, aka Hawk, was sitting on a bamboo mat, leaning against the wall with a Tiparillo dangling from the corner of his mouth. He blew a steady stream of smoke in Banyon's direction. "Does that help?"
"Fuck you," Banyon snapped. He walked to a small open window at the back of the room, and sucked in a lungful of humid air, but not nearly fresh enough. He sat under the window.
"Maybe you need to start eating some of the shit," Holcomb said, pointing to a pot of fish soup.
"Believe I'll pass," Banyon replied as he took a pack of Wrigley's spearmint gum from his trouser pocket. He folded a slice in half then shoved it in his mouth. The smell of spearmint was a brief respite from other lingering odors. "How long did you say you've been here? Two years?"
Holcomb rested his head against the wall, as he puffed on the slim cigar. "Three years in Burma, but almost two in this little oasis."
"How the hell did you find this place?!"
"I had an idea where I wanted to be, so I hired a chopper and flew along the river. These places were in worse shape than you see them now. I found Myint in town. He found the guards and the kids."
"Don't you ever feel guilty about the kids? I mean, they're just kids, Sonny."
"I look at it this way, Mitch. If they weren't here with shelter, food, and clothes given to them, they'd probably be on the front lines, carrying rifles, surviving one day at a time. Does that answer your question?"
"Yeah, sure. But it was your decision to leave that cushy job with the DEA. I expect you got paid good bucks."
Holcomb shrugged his shoulders. "Let's just say I got tired of the travel. Besides, I'm my own boss now."
Working with the DEA as an Intelligence Research Specialist, he handled all aspects of drug trade investigation, in the U.S. and overseas: cultivation and production, methods of transportation, trafficking routes, and the structure and analysis of trafficking organizations. He'd worked closely with a team of special agents in their quest to find and convict specific drug kingpins. But after learning the ins and outs of the Agency, its methods, how it "connected the dots" on cases, Holcomb decided there was more money to be made. As much as he despised Southeast Asia, a new, cheap drug had "called" his name.
He turned his scruffy, black baseball cap around, with the brim facing forward. Sewn across the crown were soiled white letters "FUBAR" (Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition). He stood up, adjusted his leather shoulder holster carrying his S&W .357, then reached in his back pocket, and removed a folded piece of paper. "Here's the inventory for your next delivery." Banyon unfolded the paper, as Holcomb continued. "Nothing's changed since last time. The pills will be handed over, once money's in your hands." He started toward the open door, motioning with his hand. "C'mon. Sounds like they're loading the boats."
Standing by the rail, they watched the boys shimmy down ropes dangling above three boats. Cardboard boxes were lowered over the side of the deck. Smaller boxes were packed inside, holding individual tins (breath mint size), each containing a dozen pills. His supplier provided pills, tins, boxes. The boys did all the packaging. Some distributors were known to pack the pills inside drinking straws, less likely to be noticed or confiscated, but the procedure was too time-consuming for Holcomb's liking.
Continuing to look toward the water, Banyon asked, "How'd you find your Subic contact?"
"I'd made a few trips for the Agency. We met in a bar near the base, and eventually we discovered we had a lot in common. I hooked up with him when I had this up and running."
"And what about your supplier? Am I ever going to meet him?"
"What would be the point?"
"What if something happened to you?"
Holcomb blew out a stream of smoke, then flicked the cigar into the water. "Unless you know something I don't, don't even think about taking over my job. He's ten times more suspicious of outsiders than Myint here," he indicated with a tilt of his head. Holcomb anticipated more questions, and decided to end it. "Let's just leave it at that."
Myint tapped Holcomb on the shoulder, pointing down to the boats. Loading was complete. The young boys waited for Holcomb to give the signal for them to leave. He swiped a hand back and forth, motioning for them to move. They untied the ropes and started paddling toward the creek.
Holcomb led the way off the deck, stopping by the bridge. "Rangoon and Dawei expect delivery tonight."
"We're all getting to be good friends," Banyon smirked.
"I hope you're kidding, Mitch, 'cause we make very few friends in our business."
"My brain functions on a higher level than you give me credit for, Sonny!"
"Whatever you say." Holcomb changed the subject. "Listen. I think you need a break. Stay overnight in Rangoon, refuel, then stop in Dawei tomorrow morning. I'll contact Dawei on the radio with the change. Gimme a time for that delivery."
"Somewhere around 1000."
"Call me before you depart. I'll meet you in town and we'll hit the bar for a few."
"Yeah. Sure. Fine. I'm outta here." Banyon hustled across the bridge, spitting his stale gum over the side, mentally preparing for his flight to Rangoon. With every prearranged delivery, he'd meet the buyer at a makeshift runway. Throughout Southeast Asia, airstrips were carved out of the jungle during World War II. Since that time, the jungles began encroaching on them, but most were very usable and far enough away from prying eyes. No passport or identification required.
When Banyon was out of sight, Holcomb walked back to his shack. When he wasn't spending time in Bangkok, this place was his temporary home. Furnishings were almost non-existent, except for a folding cot, a single wooden chair near a makeshift table, and a short wave radio. Getting food was never an issue. He'd either take one of the boats and head to the village, or rely on whatever dry foods he could bring from Bangkok. And either of the two places he'd have time to spend with the local whores.
"Time to relax," he said quietly, as he dropped his hat on the table. Pulling his T-shirt over his head, he wiped perspiration from his chest, then threw the shirt into a corner. Running a hand over his head, the new hair growth reminded him it was nearly time to take a razor to the brown fuzz. He lit another Tiparillo before stretching out on the cot. Blowing out a steady stream of smoke, he couldn't resist complimenting himself on a job well done. Myint had had the boys working constantly, packing the individual pills. The entire process never changed.