together under guard, that made a minimum of nine bandits: six in the small tents, one man watching the hostages, plus the two sentries.
There was still the mysterious cabin to consider, though. It was definitely not a wartime leftover. The structure was a block some fifteen feet to a side, standing clear of the ground on supports resembling a helicopter’s skids. The window he had seen earlier turned out to be set into a door, a slatted blind on the other side of the glass. On the roof was what looked like a satellite dish, and even over the rain and wind he could hear the flat rattle of a generator. The encampment was more than a mere hideout.
Movement caught his attention. The front flap of one of the small tents opened, a man emerging and jogging to the nearer of the two unlit shelters. He said something in Vietnamese. After a few seconds, a light came on inside, someone replying.
That now made at least ten enemies, but Chase had registered that this man was also armed with an AKS-74U. One uncommon weapon might have been happenstance, but two? He didn’t buy it. Either someone had issued them to the bandits …
Or they weren’t bandits at all.
The man finished his discussion, then hurried back to his tent. Chase remained still for a long moment before setting off again. Whatever was going on, he still had an objective: locate the prisoners. He crawled over the log toward the largest tent.
There were two small polythene windows in the side nearest to him. He crept up and peered through the transparent plastic.
Hooded figures, hands tied behind them, sat or lay upon blankets, unmoving. The aid workers. A Vietnamese man was on a small stool by the entrance, with a second guard at the other end of the tent. Both were armed with 74Us.
He took a head count. Seven prisoners. So where was number eight?
The noise of the generator suggested a possibility.
Chase slunk back into the undergrowth, then started on a circuitous route around the camp toward the structure. He had covered about two-thirds of the distance when movement prompted him to freeze. Three people came out of a tent and headed for the cabin. All wore nylon ponchos and hats, though these were baseball caps rather than the round-brimmed cloth kind of the bandits. With their heads down and their backs to the lights, he couldn’t see their faces.
He could hear their voices, though. And they were not speaking in Vietnamese.
Russians?
He only knew a few phrases of the language, but the accents and intonations sounded familiar. What the hell were they doing here?
The figures crossed to the hut and went inside. Chase caught a brief glimpse of the interior, but the flash of stark white paint and stainless steel told him nothing. He edged closer. After a few minutes, the door reopenedand the three men emerged. This time, he saw their faces. Definitely not Vietnamese.
One was in his fifties with a reddish beard, another a stocky man in his late twenties with a thin and untidy attempt at a mustache. He was engaged in discussion with the third Russian. Chase didn’t know what they were saying, but one thing was clear from their attitudes alone: The last man was very much in charge. The tallest of the three, he looked to be around Chase’s age, in his early thirties, with angular features and a hard, pale-eyed gaze, which he turned dismissively on his younger companion at some unappreciated suggestion. Cowed, the man with the mustache fell into sullen silence.
The Englishman waited for them to return to the tents before moving again. Soon he reached the cabin. He sidled along its wall and climbed the metal steps to the door.
He gently tried the handle. It turned. Readying his gun, Chase opened the door and quickly slipped inside.
He’d had no idea what to expect, but what he found still came as a shock.
A glass partition wall divided the cabin. The narrow section in which he stood had the feel of a viewing gallery, where people could observe what was
There was still the mysterious cabin to consider, though. It was definitely not a wartime leftover. The structure was a block some fifteen feet to a side, standing clear of the ground on supports resembling a helicopter’s skids. The window he had seen earlier turned out to be set into a door, a slatted blind on the other side of the glass. On the roof was what looked like a satellite dish, and even over the rain and wind he could hear the flat rattle of a generator. The encampment was more than a mere hideout.
Movement caught his attention. The front flap of one of the small tents opened, a man emerging and jogging to the nearer of the two unlit shelters. He said something in Vietnamese. After a few seconds, a light came on inside, someone replying.
That now made at least ten enemies, but Chase had registered that this man was also armed with an AKS-74U. One uncommon weapon might have been happenstance, but two? He didn’t buy it. Either someone had issued them to the bandits …
Or they weren’t bandits at all.
The man finished his discussion, then hurried back to his tent. Chase remained still for a long moment before setting off again. Whatever was going on, he still had an objective: locate the prisoners. He crawled over the log toward the largest tent.
There were two small polythene windows in the side nearest to him. He crept up and peered through the transparent plastic.
Hooded figures, hands tied behind them, sat or lay upon blankets, unmoving. The aid workers. A Vietnamese man was on a small stool by the entrance, with a second guard at the other end of the tent. Both were armed with 74Us.
He took a head count. Seven prisoners. So where was number eight?
The noise of the generator suggested a possibility.
Chase slunk back into the undergrowth, then started on a circuitous route around the camp toward the structure. He had covered about two-thirds of the distance when movement prompted him to freeze. Three people came out of a tent and headed for the cabin. All wore nylon ponchos and hats, though these were baseball caps rather than the round-brimmed cloth kind of the bandits. With their heads down and their backs to the lights, he couldn’t see their faces.
He could hear their voices, though. And they were not speaking in Vietnamese.
Russians?
He only knew a few phrases of the language, but the accents and intonations sounded familiar. What the hell were they doing here?
The figures crossed to the hut and went inside. Chase caught a brief glimpse of the interior, but the flash of stark white paint and stainless steel told him nothing. He edged closer. After a few minutes, the door reopenedand the three men emerged. This time, he saw their faces. Definitely not Vietnamese.
One was in his fifties with a reddish beard, another a stocky man in his late twenties with a thin and untidy attempt at a mustache. He was engaged in discussion with the third Russian. Chase didn’t know what they were saying, but one thing was clear from their attitudes alone: The last man was very much in charge. The tallest of the three, he looked to be around Chase’s age, in his early thirties, with angular features and a hard, pale-eyed gaze, which he turned dismissively on his younger companion at some unappreciated suggestion. Cowed, the man with the mustache fell into sullen silence.
The Englishman waited for them to return to the tents before moving again. Soon he reached the cabin. He sidled along its wall and climbed the metal steps to the door.
He gently tried the handle. It turned. Readying his gun, Chase opened the door and quickly slipped inside.
He’d had no idea what to expect, but what he found still came as a shock.
A glass partition wall divided the cabin. The narrow section in which he stood had the feel of a viewing gallery, where people could observe what was
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