He took out his sniffer and started walking toward the back of the large open room, holding the long sensor wand ahead of him as he went.
The metal skeleton of a wall stood about twenty feet from the front. A jungle of twisted metal studs and beams lay beyond it, marking the actual fabrication areas. Much of the ductwork remained, though parts of it had been pulled out. Stoner followed the long runs as they snaked back into the bowels of the large plant. He nearly tripped over a row of pipes that jutted out of the cement floor, the last remains of a restroom. Pushing past a twisted wall brace, he entered a section of the plant that had been used as a clean room.
The sniffer picked up silicone and traces of gallium arsenide, along with a long menu of materials. There was no question the plant had been used to manufacture chips, and that its products were more advanced than the sort of circuitry needed to power a television or VCR.
WHENBOSTON WASa kid, he’d lived in a bad section of town, and he and his friends would sometimes wander through abandoned buildings about two blocks from where he lived. One building in particular held endless fascination for the nine- and ten-year-olds. Once a sewing factory, it was filled with ancient machines and all manner of pulleys and gears, many still hanging from the high ceiling. A mannequin sat in a shadowy corner; they liked to scare unsuspecting friends with it.
The afternoon visits ended abruptly when the building was taken over by crack smokers. Boston remembered them now as he worked through the skeletons of stripped walls, unsure exactly what they were looking for. He had his night-vision gear on, a special viewer designed by Dreamland that was much lighter than the normal-issue AN-PVS-7 and strapped on like a pair of swimming goggles. A light enhancer rather than an IR viewer, the device wasn’t as powerful and versatile as the viewer integrated into the Whiplash Smart Helmet. But it provided more than enough light here.
Boston got a touch of the willies as a shadow passed along the metal struts where the wallboard had been removed. He knew it was just Stoner, but he couldn’t rid himself of the tingle of fear bouncing in his chest. Then he heard something, or thought he heard something, outside.
Quickly, the Whiplash trooper retraced his steps out of the bowels of the building, pausing by a side window. He eased himself out of the opening and moved quietly toward the front the factory. Sliding toward the bottom to peer around the corner at the overgrown parking area, he told himself he was being ridiculous; there was no one there.
Page 127
Then he heard the bike engines kick to life.
STONER WAS JUSTscooping up some small bits of discarded chip material from one of the fab rooms when he heard the bike engine. Cursing, he stowed the sample and the sniffer in his ruck.
Boston had already gone outside.
He pulled out his pistol and ran to cover him.
THERE WERE THREEof them, two on one bike and one on the other. Boston leaped to his feet, running toward them like a madman. He managed to grab one of the thieves by the back of the shirt and tossed him to the side, upending the other rider and the bike at the same time. A slap of MP-5 against the man’s skull knocked him senseless. The would-be driver, meanwhile, scrambled in the dirt and managed to escape into the jungle.
Boston scooped up the motorbike, and reacting rather than thinking, he hopped on it and started to chase down the other thief.
Colonel Bastian had emphasized that they were not in enemy territory, and that their weapons were to be used only if their lives were threatened, and then only as a last resort. Did this situation qualify for deadly force?
Probably not.
Definitely not.
But Boston swore to himself that he’d upend the bastard and give him a good kick in the head when he caught him.
Just as he started to gain on the thief, the bike turned off a trail to his right. Boston skidded on the uneven surface, nearly losing the vehicle out from under him as he took the turn. He revved up the trail, came to a rise and found himself airborne; when he landed, the bike went one way and he went the other.
By the time he got back to his feet, the thief was so far away Boston could barely hear the engine of the bike he’d taken.
BY THE TIMEStoner got outside, the only one in the lot was a scrawny ninety-pounder, shaking like he was a puppy caught peeing on a rug. The kid looked to be about fourteen; whether he was Thai or Cambodian, Stoner couldn’t tell.
“What’s your story?” demanded Stoner. He repeated the question in Mandarin and then Cantonese Chinese, finally switching to standard Thai, a language he knew so little of that he could only ask what the man’s name was and whether he could speak English.
The man said nothing in response to any of his questions, clearly frightened and probably believing he was going to die.
Page 128
One of the motorbikes revved in the distance, returning. The CIA officer held on to the thief until he was sure that it was Boston on the bike, then threw the man down and told him, in English, to run. The man blinked at him.
“Jàu hòi!” Stoner said in Chinese. Get away. Go.
Finally the kid began crawling backward toward the jungle.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Stoner told Boston, climbing on the back of the bike.
“He a guerrilla?”
“I don’t know. Probably just a thief. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“You done inside?”
“For now. Go. Go!”
HISTORICALLY,THAILAND SATat the crossroads of southeast Asia. The land had played host to various migrations for many thousands of years. This history had left a rich culture, but it had also greatly complicated the language situation. Thai was spoken by more than half of the country’s population, but its various dialects and local accents made it difficult for a foreigner to understand, even when that foreigner was communicating with the help of a language expert who could listen in with the help of a small but powerful mike setup.
“I think what he’s telling you is it’s dangerous,” said the Thai-Kadai language expert back in Dreamland as he tried to decipher the words Dog was repeating through his sat phone.
“Well, I kind of figured that,” said Dog.
The man had arrived on bicycle after they’d been on the ground a half hour. He seemed to be a maintenance worker or caretaker; he had explained in heavily accented Thai that the administrator and staff had left some time before—though whether “some time” meant earlier in the day or weeks ago wasn’t entirely clear.
“Why don’t I let you talk to him directly?” Dog asked his translator.
“Sounds okay to me,” said the man.
Dog had to coax the Thai worker into taking the phone. But he was soon chattering away, and Colonel Bastian thought he’d have a hard time getting the phone back.
“He says he hasn’t been around too long,” the translator told Dog. “He comes every day. The only other aircraft have been army helicopters. The Cambodian guerrillas hide when they come, but there are at least a few dozen armed insurgents nearby, and it sounds like they control the area. Most of the people who live in the jungle there are refugees, or were refugees and have just kind of squatted.”
“Did he say anything about the factory?” Dog asked.
Page 129
“Didn’t know anything about it. Hard to tell how sincere he’s being, Colonel. He may be scared of you and be telling you what he thinks you want to hear. Or he might be a guerrilla and be lying outright. Or he might just be telling the truth.”
Dog looked at the middle-aged man. It seemed to him unlikely that the man was a guerrilla, but of course there was no way of knowing. The Thai government did not actively condone the guerrilla movement against the Cambodian government, but it didn’t entirely discourage it either. The guerrillas were occasionally harassed, but the Thai government did not consider them a big enough threat to kick them out of the country. Historically, there had been plenty of animosity between Thailand and Cambodia, and if it weren’t for the refugees who crowded their borders, the official line toward the guerrillas might have been openly encouraging.