The Path Changes The Traveler Ch 03

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I'm loading this one now since I seem to have the bandwidth for it at the moment. Might be a day or so before I put up the next chapter. Oddly enough, that was my thinking after the last one, but maybe this will work one more time for me today. :)

Anyway, Quan finds an opportunity to pick up some cash and she sends Morgan and Maggie off to get the arguably legal deed done. It all involves a couple of long, droning flights in a slow, lumbering transport plane where staying awake might be an issue, and in between, there are some moments of heart-pounding tension for this bunch.

Darotai is the woman from the first chapter, in case it isn't clear.

The lump of machinery in this is an ex-Russian tank. These things were sold or sometimes even given to many nations in the 1960s and 70s, being left over from WW II in great numbers.

The folks in this come from a number of places and only one of them is in a position to act as a translator, so she's busy.

Two things to keep in mind here: The year of this is a long time in the past now and things were different in the area that this is set in.

As well, it's a work of fiction, just to remind you.

0_o

*****

1974 Taiwan

It was late and Morgan's neck felt stiff from leaning over the large table with his weight on his hands as they pored over maps and more maps, scribbling notes and working out timetables. Quan had summoned him and Maggie, wanting to do some rather quick and impromptu mission planning.

"Here," Quan said, pointing at one map, "This is the place with the nearest of any sort of airfield on the Saudi side which can handle a heavy transport. There's not much in the way of runway information either, but I have learned at least a little.

The place isn't that old, going back to only 1951. Now there's a town growing there. It had to do with the construction of an oil pipeline. From there, it's about 60 miles to the border of Iraq. The place where you need to be is about the same distance inside. That is where you will make the pickup.

I will have ground transport there for you as well as the services of a local who works for me sometimes. He will help you over any bumps in the speech and the bargaining. He knows the customs there."

"What are we picking up?" Morgan asked, trying to stay focused under the glare of the lamp hanging by its cord not far over his head.

By now, he was getting a little used to finding and delivering some odd packages for Quan. He thought that it might help his attention span if he knew at this point just what it was that she needed him to bring.

"And what am I supposed to bargain for? We've been at this for a while now. I guess that I've been too caught up in scratching something together trip-wise that I just now realised that I don't even know what this is all for yet. Better to know at least at this point in case I need to change anything because of the objective.

And you said 'heavy transport'."

Quan smiled in a low-key way for a moment and then her smile turned on fully, knowing that she was going to enjoy the rest of this.

For a woman such as she was to him, to Morgan it felt like looking out of the window late at night and seeing the glow of the full moon behind a bank of clouds, just as the wind drives the clouds away while one watches.

"You are going there to purchase a girl, Morgan. I'm sending you off to an area where there are still slave markets operating.

Everyone makes all of the correct noises about abolishing what was once a major and very lucrative economic activity for the old Ottoman Empire and the practice is illegal even there - but it still goes on to this day; there, and in a few other corners of the world.

Relax," she said to him, seeing his expression, "You're actually going there to buy her so that you can fly her to safety - that is, if you don't get there too late. My intelligence on the ground is a little thin there. She might already be dead or have been bought by someone else.

If she's dead, then we're out of luck, and if she's been bought, then you'll have to find her and then get her out if you think that you can. I don't think that I need to think about it too much. My sister tells me that she's never seen someone with such a short decision-process in terms of choosing whether someone must be killed or not and still have the assignment succeed.

I don't want to put too many restrictions on this, so just use your common sense."

She shrugged, "The girl is the daughter of a former Greek government minster. It seems that truckloads of money weren't enough to interest him in allowing a rather shady set of negotiations to proceed. Since he is wealthy enough to pretend to be disinterested, his daughter was kidnapped.

The move got his attention and he was apparently about to cooperate, but then the wind changed or something and the Greek government was toppled by a non-confidence motion. That sort of thing happens with disturbing frequency there. The resulting election tossed the minister out on his ear with the rest of the government of the day and he was no longer in a position to play along.

But it seems that he'd made more than a few enemies - though as strange as it seems to me, it might work out for him and his daughter this way, if you can find her.

Normal procedure when something like that happens if you find yourself holding a hostage whom no one especially wants at the moment is a small-calibre pistol held up against the skull just behind one ear. After the quiet shot, you only have a body to dispose of.

But this way, his daughter was shipped off to be sold as a slave, so I suspect that the kidnappers and the ones who transported the girl are two different groups. A thing such as that is done sometimes to add the same pain as a dagger in one's back being twisted.

There are no governments involved in this, but there is a reward and it is enough to interest me. You and Maggie will go and pull ..."

She looked down at her notes for a moment, "Mena out. We'll keep her here for a week or two and then arrange for her father to pick her up somewhere."

She waited for a couple of things then, since they always seemed to happen at times such as this. Actually, this was one of her favourite parts to being Morgan's boss, to her.

She watched his jaw drop - just as she knew that it would happen and he began to speak about all sorts of issues - most of them legal considerations. As he raised them all, Quan smiled as she popped each balloon.

"In an attempt to preclude any possible ... violence, you're going to purchase that girl for whatever the going rate is for a young woman there, so the slaver will be happy and the local government won't have to get its tail feathers ruffled by you needing to abduct her yourself.

We have no interest in anything other than reuniting a man with his daughter - so it has the best appearance to it from a worldwide viewpoint if it were to become known about."

"Well, you do have an interest other than that," Morgan smirked, "You're really after the reward."

Quan waved off the bothersome and truthful detail as she went on.

"Iraq and Saudi Arabia are ambivalent to one another at the moment, so I can't think that there would be much of any military complications over it as long as you do not overfly the border into Iraq, and best of all, I will be paid rather well."

She stopped there, waiting for their combined intellects to begin on the logistic issues, and she didn't have long to wait.

"This is it here?" Maggie asked as she pointed to a dot and when Quan nodded, Maggie added, "That's over a hundred miles out from the plane - one way. I hope the roads aren't in the usual shape for that part of the world and that the wheels are up to it. That's no place for a flat tire."

Quan produced a photo of a military-style 6x6 truck, rather American-looking, though painted in Iraqi desert colors, "There will be two trucks - one on either side of the border and you are not to take either one across that border. The trucks are the same thing, but one will look to be Iraqi army and the other Saudi.

Have you decided on the aircraft, Morgan? I'll need to know what you want and then hope that I can get one. I was offered a choice of two right away."

Morgan nodded in a thoughtful way, never taking his eyes from the map, "I'll want something that can handle slightly rough fields at least," he said, "I know what I'd want from the standpoint of range, but I don't know if you can get one.

I was thinking of an old Fairchild Flying Boxcar. What sort of uh, cooperative resources have you got for this?"

"That was one of the ones which were mentioned to me," Quan said quietly. "They are in use by the Taiwanese. But other than a temporary civil paint job, the problem lies in the slowness. The distance is not an issue. I can offer a Boxcar with four ferry tanks of 500 gallons each; enough for three thousand four hundred miles."

Morgan nodded with a smirk, "And that's just about what it'll take. Since I don't know what kind of surface we'll be parking the aircraft on, we fly from Oman to Ar'ar a little light on fuel. From there, we do the drive-through-the-desert dance.

When we go back, we fly back to Oman for fuel and from there, we head for Pakistan. From Pakistan, we move on to Udorn in Thailand and then on to Taipei.

Just eyeballing this, it looks like 1800 miles to Karachi and then another 2300 or so to Udorn Air Force Base and then 1300 more to Taipei. Unless we pick up a really good tailwind, we're looking at ... "

He worked his Hewlett-Packard calculator for a moment and then he looked up, " Just about a day - 22 hours of flight time. We'll need two crews of two each.

You sure there's enough money in that girl to do this?"

---

The flight from Oman was a bit of a nightmare from a navigational standpoint.

There were a lot of nations in the area which claimed territorial rights over the waters in the strait of Hormuz, but they threaded that needle in the lumbering old transport, flying low level most of the way in. The trick on the inbound trip was the fuel.

Morgan would have wanted to carry full tanks, but he was a little worried over the weight on landing and then having the beast sit there in the dirt waiting for them to return. He'd agonised over it for a while and then decided on two-thirds and up to, but not exceeding three-quarters fuel.

As well, something as large and ungainly-looking as a C-119 Flying Boxcar was just bound to attract attention eventually no matter where they parked it, though they'd pulled it about as far away from anything else in the general parking area there as they could go after landing.

Though there were civil examples of the type, they were rare. Most of the owners of something like this were military arms. The one which they were loaned for this was painted in a civilian scheme, but there were two small turbojets out there under the wings outboard of the old radial engines and only military ones had this feature to aid in hot and heavily-loaded takeoffs from airfields at higher altitudes.

Something which Morgan kept thinking about was that there was the control tower right over there and control towers tend to have binoculars kept in them.

It was all done far from anyone, but Morgan hoped that no one would notice the appearance and disappearance of a Saudi six-by-six military truck. They were gone in minutes, driving down the road to the border.

Their contact Rashid appeared to be an affable man in his middle thirties by the look of him and he was a professional at many of the sorts of things by which a man such as he was might make a living in an area such as this. Morgan thought about what it must be like to have to spend all - or at least the vast majority of one's life under cover of some sort and under the radar. He'd looked about pleased enough to explode when they met him, saying that he believed that he'd located the girl.

Morgan looked over at Maggie and smiled a little thinly at the way that she sat dressed as a well-bundled up Arab woman.

He felt for her. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, that did little to change the fact that it was stupid hot here and they weren't exactly flying down the road. She beckoned him closer with a motion of her hand.

As he leaned in, Maggie used a little ruse that they'd worked out between them. With the others, Rashid and the driver not knowing anything of them, she stretched up and kissed his cheek, as though she was his woman.

Morgan knew what this was and he held still as she whispered into this ear, "Something about him. I don't trust him at all."

Morgan smiled and nodded, as though what had been said was about something else, noticing that both Rashid and the man behind the wheel had seen the gesture.

An hour later, they were almost within sight of the other truck which sat waiting for them on the other side of the quiet border. In appearance, it was just like the first truck, other than some details in the paint and the markings. Morgan noticed that Maggie was a little slow in getting out of the first truck to walk to the second.

From his viewpoint as he climbed up to sit in the back behind the cab, she was looking down at something in the other truck and then she asked for a moment to fix her clothing a little. It only took about thirty seconds and then she was trotting over with an embarrassed expression. The next moment, they were barrelling off through the dust to go shopping for a girl.

Morgan was still in at least a little disbelief at this assignment.

The one nice thing was the other crew. The aircraft had been purchased years before, along with a ton of others just like it by the US Air Force. But many of them were gone now and even for what they were, they were pretty old news, so the majority had been sold to other nations.

These days, some of them had sort of a second lease on life working transport for an airline which most Americans had never heard of. The corporation was mostly a front for the same intelligence agency which Morgan had worked for. But the other guys who were baking out there inside the fat old pig weren't intelligence officers. They were just pilots who worked for Air America and were stationed on Taiwan.

For this, they'd been loaned - along with the aircraft - to Civil Air Transport; a shell corporation owned by Air America, though CAT as it was known, worked almost exclusively as a regular airline and as such, it turned a rather tidy profit.

This was just a favour for a favour to somebody else. It got a little confusing at times, but that was all Quan's problem. Morgan and Maggie just had to make it all work and hope that nothing important fell off - otherwise their combined fat would land squarely in the fire.

Morgan looked around and saw the third member of their core crew sitting asleep on the other side of him. It had been his state of consciousness for almost all of the flight in one of the jump seats. He'd shown up at the agency not long after Morgan had been grabbed and taken to meet Quan, though they'd known each other before that.

They'd only worked together a handful of times before but Morgan was impressed enough to mention the man to Quan. To have impressed Morgan was something that Quan would have wanted to see while it had been happening.

She'd heard about this one because Morgan wanted to give him a chance before Quan was done with her recruiting. She'd nodded after Morgan had made his pitch.

"Very well," she'd smiled, "here is a chance for you to see how much I now trust in your judgement after our success in getting Maggie out of Laos.

My last choices were going to be another pair of analysts. But really, I thought about it and realised that I'm up to my ears in analysts. More importantly, you are impressed enough to recommend this man to me and I believe that from the first moment when you and I met, we understood each other.

So the analysts can stay at Langely and be laid off when this round of cutbacks winds up. My money's on Priest."

J. Maddox Priest was usually known by his surname no matter where he'd gone. Morgan called him 'Mad', but everyone else just knew him as Priest. If he was in good humour, Maddox himself would be the first to offer his hand and introduce himself as 'Mad Priest'.

He wasn't large much beyond average for a North American, but he was very strong for his size and there were other 'qualities' to him that Morgan felt might be of use.

As far as appearances went, he was a bit forgettable when he wanted to be, yet at other times, he was noticeable depending on circumstances. He showed the Shawnee heritage from his father's side in the coloration of his skin if he stayed outdoors and in the sun for long, say in the way that he might while working off a sentence at the state prison farm.

The details of his face almost belied that, since he got his fine looks from his mother, who had descended from Black Irish stock, coming from County Cork a long way back. Some might propose that such a mix could be rather explosive.

Priest showed the world that he was a normally quiet man, often about as loud and boisterous as your average graveyard. In his dealings with most people, J. Maddox Priest most often left them with the impression that he was a true son of Dixie, a young southern gentleman, polite to a fault during those rare occasions when he chose to actually speak.

Even when provoked, there was never the explosion that one might expect. But if it happened, his motions were blindingly fast and usually quiet, occasionally though not often messy and only afterward could it be said that it had been calculated as though planned beforehand.

Smart, agile, and uncommonly fast, Priest was an expert in unarmed combat, using elements of many styles and blending them all into his own.

But the hand-to-hand stuff was something that he preferred to avoid if at all possible. To his thinking, if you were down to bare knuckles and Boy Scout knives, then you were already well on the way south.

He was proficient with the small arms of many nations, but his calling card was the way that he could handle a blade if used offensively in a planned manner where needed. He could drop a man in the dark to quietly bleed out and die, and would be so fast with it that the victim usually only knew that he was dying as it happened, not even aware that he hadn't been alone at all up to that point.

Right now - as usual - he was amazing Morgan a little that he could sleep so well no matter where he was.

Jump seats aren't like regular aircraft seats. They're just things which can fold down to be sat on - not in. The aircraft might be old and slow, but it did wobble now and then. The truck wobbled a lot, though it was usually harder to fall off.

Yet Priest sat slumbering soundly - as soundly as somebody like him could, Morgan supposed. Something like landing on the floor if the aircraft encountered turbulence was for mere mortals.

Like Morgan, Priest had been in the army. But that was about where any similarities between them ended. While he had his uses, most people were creeped out by his almost total stillness. He almost never spoke unless spoken to and in most cases, even that required that the one addressing him be an officer or at least a senior non-commissioned soldier such as a Warrant Officer or platoon sergeant when they were back in the army.

The longest speech that he'd been known to have made to Morgan back then was when Morgan asked him about his quiet nature when they'd met in Vietnam. Morgan was there as an intelligence officer looking for some help with a night mission.

They were on the chopper on the way in later that night, but Morgan couldn't hear the reply over the noise of the bird. Priest had appeared beside Morgan like a ghost and he'd leaned in so that only Morgan could hear.