[A/N] I have traveled through SE Asia and found the peoples of Thailand, Laos and Vietnam among the friendliest and most hospitable on this planet- to say nothing of the amazing food. This story is pure fiction. It is not intended to disparage any Asian peoples or ethnic groups.

[A/N-2] My thanks to former Sergeant First Class Frank S., 3rd Battalion, 5th Special Forces Group, who served in northern Afghanistan in 2001 as part of Task Force Dagger. The methods of escape depicted in this story actually work. I saw one of them demonstrated, but I passed up on the chance to experience the others firsthand.


Chapter 11
It's Not Fair

It was sweltering. There was a slight breeze; but not enough to cool. It was only enough to carry the smell of the poppies which were growing in the nearby fields.

It was an earthy smell- almost like raw potatoes.

Harm and Stryker had been stripped of money and all of their personal gear. Literally everything except the clothes on their backs.

The two Lao guides who had turned on them now stood off to the side. Whether they had purposefully lead them into a trap, or if they were simply trying to save their own skins didn't matter. Both men were now the enemy.

Being former Special Forces, Stryker could speak fair Vietnamese, as well as the Nung and Hmong dialectics reasonably well.

He tried speaking to the leader in Hmong. "Koj yog kuv tus phooj ywg (You are my friend)."

It brought no response.

Stryker surmised the bandits were Akha people, a small ethnic group living in northern Laos, and the poorest of all the hill tribes.

Nearly three-quarters of Laos was covered in mountains and forested hills that are too steep to live on, much less farm. Life was hard for the hill tribes. It was worse for the Akha, who were not treated or addressed as equals in Laotian society.

More failed attempts were made to communicate with the leader, but one thing was clear in any language: the Americans were believed to be CIA.

Harm instructed Bian, his Vietnamese guide, to tell only the truth. Harm felt it was their only hope.

Bian struggled to explain to the bandit leader that Harm was an American student looking for his father who had gone missing during the war and that Stryker was a family friend who had come along. Everyone could keep their "gifts" because all that the Americans wanted now was to return home to America.

The leader seemed to be thinking it over when one of the Laotian guides stepped forward and began screaming that Bian's story was lies. He said that Harm was CIA, and the man with him was CIA. The guide further claimed that Harm was from a wealthy family who would pay many thousands of dollars for his freedom. The guide then declared Bian to be a Catholic and a Vietnamese agent who was working for the American government.

Christianity had long been meet with suspicion in Laos, where 95% of the population was Buddhist or practiced Tai folk religion.

Bian did not deny her religion, but explained again that Harm was only looking for his missing father. She added that Harm's mother was a poor widow living alone and had no money for ransom.

An argument erupted between the leader and the guide, who snatched away a Tokarov pistol from one of the bandits.

In an effort to make Harm confess, the guide moved next to Bian and put the pistol to her head.

"Dừng làm điều đó (don't do it)," Stryker shouted in Vietnamese.

"She hasn't done anything!" Harm pleaded.

Harm took a step forward, but the bandit's rifles were aimed directly at him.

Bian looked at Harm. He was so tall and handsome. Recognizing that she was about to die, Bian told Harm that she loved him. Then she began to pray.

When Bian reached "Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death," the guide screamed, "E haanee (bitch)!" pulled the trigger and shot Bian in the head.

Bian pitched over and fell dead at Harm's feet, some of her brain matter splattering onto his boots.

During the ensuing commotion, Stryker made a grab for the Tokarov, but he was struck by a rifle butt and knocked to the ground unconscious.

Harm dropped to his knees and took Bian's body in his arms. He looked up at the leader. "She was just a girl. She never did anything bad," Harm insisted.

The guide began laughing and dancing around Harm; ridiculing him by calling him a little girl, and much worse. When the guide pointed the Tokarov at Harm, the leader shouted orders to one of the bandits who took the pistol away.

Harm was now forced to watch as Bian's body was unceremoniously dumped into a stinking drainage ditch.

Harm glared at the guide who had killed her and silently vowed revenge.

Rope was produced, and one of the bandits began to tie Harm's hands behind his back. Harm was nearly a foot taller than the bandit so he was made to bend down so that his hands could be more easily bound.

When the bandit had finished tying Harm, he boasted that he'd made the American bow to him.

Unbeknownst to anyone, bending down had allowed Harm to keep his elbows slightly spread, which had left just a bit of slack in the rope which bound his hands.

The noise of the gunshot might bring the Army, so the bandits decided to put some distance between themselves and the poppy field. Striker was revived and after his hands were tied the the group trekked off into the hills.

It was difficult going. No food or water offered to Harm or Stryker.

The sun dropped quickly in the hills. By the time the group set up camp for the night, everyone was exhausted.

Harm and Stryker were seated opposite each other and leaning up against large rocks. Their feet were tied, but no one checked the ropes which bound their hands.

The bandits were not professional soldiers. They soon scattered into groups with no security perimeter established.

When the moon had risen, everyone in camp was sleeping; including the two guides who were now acting as guards for Harm and Stryker.

It was time for action.

Stryker had been lashed tightly, but Harm had retained the slack in the rope which bound his hands.

Harm was an athlete; slender and flexible. Even with his long arms, it took three attempts before he was able to bring his hands from behind his back and then around his legs so that his hands were in front of him.

Harm tried to untie the knot which bound his feet, but the bandit who had tied it would have made a good boatswains mate. It would take a marlinspike to loosen the knot.

Stryker silently indicated Harm to check his boots, which were laced with 550 paracord, a lightweight nylon cord originally used in the suspension lines of parachutes and infinitely stronger than the hemp rope Harm was tied with.

Using only his fingertips, Harm laboriously unlaced his left boot and removed the lace. With Stryker's urging, Harm began rapidly moving his arms back and forth so that the boot lace sawed through the rope to free his feet.

Harm made a large loop on both ends of the boot lace and placed one loop over his left boot and the second loop around the right boot, which will still splattered with Bian's blood. Holding the paracord hard against the rope which bound his hands, Harm got on his back with his feet up and in front of him and began moving his legs as if he were riding a bicycle.

In under thirty seconds the paracord cut through the rope and Harm was free.

Harm moved over to Stryker and was using the paracord to cut the rope which bound his hands when he heard a noise behind him.

When Harm turned he was face to face with the guide who had killed Bian.

Their eyes locked for split second, then Harm lunged, grabbing the guide at the throat to stifle his scream.

Harm dragged the guide to the ground, wrapped his legs tightly around his torso and then slipped the paracord over his head and around his neck.

Grasping both loops of the improvised garrote, Harm pulled it taut and began to strangle the guide.

The guide was kicking and struggling to save his life.

"Now, I'm going to kill you," Harm said to the guide, while he continue tightening the cord around the man's neck.

The thrashing awakened the second guide, but by now, Stryker was on his feet.

Despite his legs still being tied, Stryker put the guide's head in an armlock and then snapped his neck in one quick movement.

The first guard was already dead, but Harm was consumed with rage and continued throttling him. "I'm going to fucking kill you!" he said over and over again.

Stryker had to pull Harm off the body. When he looked into the teenage boy's eyes, Stryker saw only rage.

"Let's get out of here." Harm calmed down and the two men made a quick check of the bodies for weapons or tools.

Stryker found a pocket knife and used it to cut the rope which bound his legs.

Once Stryker was free, he and Harm raced away into the hills and the chase began.

Harm awoke with his undershirt ringing wet with sweat. It had been several months since he'd last had that dream, and he couldn't understand why he would have it now.

It was Mac. She had asked him about Vietnam and had seemed dissatisfied with his story.

Mac was always curious and would leave no stone unturned. This was the reason Mac was an outstanding investigator.

But there was something else about Mac. Something that Rusza, the gypsy girl in Russia, had recognized.

She's said, "This one has the gift."

My god, what if Mac really can read minds or monitor dreams?

With that thought in his mind, Harm showered and shaved, and then put on his Academy warm ups before straightening up the room.

Harm was ready to go to the kitchen when he heard a knock on the door.

"Good morning, Darling," said Trish, who was carrying a tray with Harm's breakfast.

"Breakfast in bed? You're spoiling me, Mom."

"That's what I'm here for." Trish set the tray on the desk. "Sit down and have your breakfast. Then I want to talk to you about Sarah."

Harm's appetite disappeared.

"Are Mac and Frank back from their walk?" he asked hopefully.

"Not yet. Now sit down and eat," Trish insisted.

When Harm finished his breakfast, Trish motioned for him to join her on the sofa. "I'd like to know your intentions with Sarah?"

"She's my best friend."

"In two short weeks, you're going to be thirty five years old. At this stage of your life, Sarah should be much more than your friend."

"Please, Mom."

"Sarah loves you, Harmon."

"I know that."

"And?" Trish asked point blank.

"I love her too."

"Have you told her?"

"I told her last night while we were at the gliderport."

Trish's tone was stinging. "Your excitement level is off the chart."

"It was a mistake. Mac needs a man who will focus all of his attention on her."

"Deep down, that's every woman wants. Instead, we settle for what time we can get," Trish said.

"I can't be that man for Mac. At least not right now."

"Harmon, for a long time you and I were all that each other had. We were always open and honest. Tell me what it is that's bothering you."

Harm went to his briefcase and removed a copy of the July issue of the Western Journal of Medicine which had one of the pages flagged. He handed the journal to his mother who opened it to an article on laser refractive surgery for pilots.

"You plan to fly again. Does Sarah know?"

"No, she doesn't. Are you going to tell her?"

Trish's feathers were ruffled. "That's not my place. Although you may not believe it, I know my place in your life. Just the same, if you do love Sarah, you'll have to tell her."

"Mac and I are going to have a long talk tomorrow morning to get our feelings an expectations for a relationship out in the open."

"And that's when you plan tell her of your intention to fly again."

"Right now there is nothing to tell."

"Harmon!"

"Before I can take the first step, I need to consult with an ophthalmologist in DC who specializes in aviation, along with an aviation ocular specialist."

"But the surgery will allow you to fly again."

"That's not certain. After the surgery I'll have to face a Navy Flight Surgeon and then the medical board. Because of the trip to Russia, everything will be rescheduled."

"No matter what the surgeons say, you must know that it's going to take an act of god to have the medical board sign off on your returning to Group 1 unrestricted flight status."

"I didn't imagine that it would be easy." Harm knew how few aviators who had been bumped down to Group 3 (restricted) had regained their previous status.

"But you've never failed at anything you've attempted, which is why Sarah needs to know about your desire to return to active flight status. Trust me, Sarah is every bit as smart as she is beautiful. If she finds this out after the fact..."

"Mac does have a temper."

"Deservedly so, after what the poor girl has been through in her life."

"How would you feel about my flying again?"

"We're discussing Sarah."

"I'd like to know where I stand with you."

"Ask any mother whose son wants to leave the safety of the Staff Corps to resume flying jet fighters and you'll get an answer you wouldn't want to hear. But, you're my son, which means that the cockpit of a Navy fighter is where you belong. Just like your father and your grandfather."

"How did you feel about dad flying?"

Trish thought back to early April, 1964. Little Harm was six months old and her husband and his squadron were making ready to deploy to Vietnam, where war seemed immanent.

More than ten years had passed since Korea, so this was the first time that all but the most senior members of the squadron had combat deployed.

Excitement was running high among the aviators. Less so for their wives who had grown accustomed to the stability of life in a peacetime Navy.

Trish and Harm were in their bedroom where Big Harm was looking down at his sleeping son, who had just transitioned from a bassinet to a crib.

"You've given us a fine looking boy. He's already so big that he'll probably be sleeping in a real bed when I come home." Harm gave Trish his smile, which always made her melt.

"He's 28 inches. That's big for a 6 month old, but I think he's a bit underweight."

"Thin is okay. Just as long as he doesn't grow up to be too tall to fit into the cockpit of a fighter."

Trish gave a blank stare. You lost your own father at the Battle of Midway. You risk your life every day, and you want our son to fly? My god! There's no end to it.

Harm kissed the tip of his right index finger, gently touched it to the forehead of his sleeping son, then he went outside to smoke a cigar.

While Harm and Trish stood next to each other on the front porch they saw a flight of four A-4C Skyhawks fly over the house.

"Those are Danny Jinx's boys from VA-146 on the Constellation. I wish we were flying off the Connie, and not an old Essex Class carrier like the Ticonderoga."

Trish couldn't believe what she'd just heard. War could break out any day in Vietnam, but husband's biggest concern was that he wasn't deploying on one of the Navy's most modern aircraft carriers.

"It's been a rough couple of weeks," said Harm. "Al Cherry cracked up on landing at Miramar on Monday. He'll be okay- just a couple of bruised ribs. That's good, because we need Al." Harm blew a cloud of cigar smoke away from Trish. "Gary Grissom is still in the Naval hospital with a sprained back and a separated shoulder after punching out from his F-8 last Wednesday."

Trish liked Gary Grissom, who was a bit older and was more mature than the other members of the squadron. Besides that, Gary was always polite and respectful; a true Southern Gentleman. "Will Grits recover?"

"He's as tough as nails, but Grits is former rotary wing and right now there's a huge demand for helicopter pilots. If Grits stays behind we'll lose him." Harm broke into a smile. "Luckily, Tom and Bill have a plan to bust Grits out of the hospital and take him along with us. I swear, those two and their wild schemes."

Trish took hold of her husband's arm. "Are you ever afraid?" she begged.

When Harm turned to face his wife, his blue eyes were as cold as steel. "Not ever."

"Why? or don't you allow yourself to think about it?"

"I doubt that there is anyone who hasn't asked himself at least once during night traps, 'What the hell and I doing up here?' Of course after we've trapped, we conveniently forget that we asked ourselves that question."

"Then why do you do it?" Trish pleaded. "I know it's not for the flight pay."

"I do it for the chance to do something that few other men can. And to let everyone see that I can do it better than anyone else ever has."

"And the danger?"

Harm took his young wife in his arms and held her tightly. "It lets me appreciate the wonderful things that I have in my life even more, like you, and Little Harm."

Inside the study, Harm looked at his mother. "Mom. I asked how you felt about dad flying."

Trish looked up at her son and whispered, "You don't get to ask me that question."

"I'm sorry. Until now I never knew how you really felt."

Trish took hold of her son's hands and looked into his eyes. "Darling, you've been an endless source of pride for me. You are my life's greatest accomplishment."

Harm smiled. "Thank you, Mom."

"Harmon, every time I see that smile, I know that it's really your father who is smiling at me." Trish began to weep. "He was taken from us so soon. It's not fair!"

Now it was Harm's turn to hold his mother. After she had cried, he dried her tears, just as she had dried his.