Sarangong

By Crash Froelich

In Sarangong, a tropical “people’s” paradise in the Sulu Sea, Dave and Debbie Douglas won't be relaxing on a beach. Dave's father is missing and they've called upon his friends in Sarangong to help find him. Unbeknownst to the goons running the country, the group is prepared to deal with hostile police, shoot it out with paramilitaries, rescue natives in distress, and play hide and seek with the army. Worse, finding Dad won’t end their troubles. To get out in one piece, they’ll have to stop a renegade intelligence operative from triggering a nuclear incident that could start World War III.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crash Froelich
• Release date: Aug 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301609192

Crash Froelich

I’m from Kansas City, both of them. My folks lived in Gladstone but the nearest Hospital was Providence, in Kansas.When I was two, we moved to Saint Joseph, Missouri and an apartment across the street from the Krug Park Lily Pond. I’ll be forever grateful to my parents because growing up in that place was magic. The magic lasted until I was in fourth grade, when the family, now including two younger siblings, moved into a split level ranch on the east side of town and the wilds of a partially developed area with woods, creeks, and construction all around.Exploring and baseball took the place of magic. Soon the wildness of the place became tame and well-ordered. So did I. High school was followed by a few frustrating years in college. Restlessness prompted me to join the Army. I traveled the world, drank deeply from the cultures of Germany and Korea, but the magic called to me in a weak voice and stirred me.I graduated with a Master of Science in Applied Mathematics from Missouri University of Science and Technology. Years in aerospace and defense contracting were fulfilling and rewarding, but the magic still whispered its siren song.Finally, after years of struggling, I set the magic free. Stories took shape, guided by characters crafted with care. Characters that live with me always, because they are my children.Children burst from my brain as Zeus gave birth to Athena. Now they live for you, dear reader. Enjoy with my compliments.

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Sarangong

By Crash Froelich

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Crash Froelich

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To those intrepid souls who, despite incredible odds against them, make lemonade.

Acknowledgment

As ever, I am humbled and gratified by the support I have received from my colleagues at the Online Writers Workshop in the development of this book. They have been and will remain dear friends to whom I offer my thanks. Those who stuck with me throughout are Deb Cawley, Gio Clairval, Elizabeth Coley, Kendra Highley, Elizabeth Hull, Michael Keyton, Ilan Lerman, and L.K. Pinaire. With special thanks to Karin Lowachee, for her encouragement, and Jeanne Haskin, whose commitment made this novel a reality.

Chapter One

Li Ying lost her grip, fumbling the case of MREs to the ground. She bent at the waist, placed hands on hips, and gulped down air. Careful not to grin at her poison glare, Charlie hid the bottled water he carried under a flowering bush. He moved the food she’d dropped next to the water. The concealment stunk. He could put the stuff in a safer place after Li Ying departed.

I thought a perpetual-twenty-nine-year-old could lug that stuff around all day without working up a sweat. Maybe you should cut back on the cigarettes.

Her answer was a raised middle finger.

Charlie laughed. C’mon, Ying-Ying. Two more trips and all my gear will be unloaded. Then you can shove off.

That’s good news.

She marched in the direction of her boat. Charles Douglas shrugged and made long strides to keep up with the woman, her pony tail swinging in rhythm to her pace. He repeatedly ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair as if trying to comb out his anxiety.

Bad joke. Sorry. Don’t forget, in one week come back and pick me up.

Li Ying stopped in her tracks. She coolly studied her passenger. Charlie failed to repress a grin. Li Ying smiled wryly.

Pushy white asshole. I’m a professional. I never renege on business deals.

I thought you were in a hurry. Let’s move. We don’t want the goons spotting your boat, do we?

Like that’s my biggest problem. If the goons put you in front of a firing squad on live TV, your pal Billie will skin me alive for bringing you here.

She frowned and turned back toward the beach. They walked side-by-side.

I’ll find out what’s cooking here on Siaou and get out, before whatever the comrades are up to hits the fan. I wrote to my son about my suspicions in that letter I gave you. This excursion could take a while. I didn’t want him to worry.

Li Ying stared at him for a moment. What letter?

You know, the one I asked you to mail the last time you went to Zamboanga.

She looked at the ground and shook her head. You gave me a letter?

Sure I did, that night I visited the boat before you left.

Her head snapped up. When she looked at him, Charlie noticed red in her cheeks.

Oops.

Ying-Ying, I don’t like the sound of that ‘oops.’

They cleared the cover of the jungle and walked onto the sand. Perhaps the ceaseless racket of birdcalls drowned out any noise, or the patrol boat’s engines had been shut down. Whatever the reason, neither of them noticed the presence of interlopers until a bullhorn squawked to life.

Stand where you are. You’re under arrest for trespassing on a quarantined military area. Put your hands up and prepare to be taken into custody.

To reinforce the command, a sailor on the bow of the vessel charged a deck-mounted machine gun. Two men with rifles slung across their backs paddled a rubber dinghy toward shore.

Li Ying raised her hands and whispered out of the side of her mouth. Shit. I bet I’m going to regret not mailing that letter.

***

The late morning sun flooded into the valley between cliffs of corrugated steel. The blonde leaned against a rusty warehouse and turned her face to the warmth. Bare toes tingled in impossibly dry dust. The smell of disintegrating metal prickled in her nose. Her eyes became lazy slits and she glanced down the drive. No van. An errant tress fell into her mouth and she blew it away. Looking at the halo of teased hair framing her face crushed a sigh out of her. The legs of her shorts were rolled to the point of indecency. Her blouse was unbuttoned and tied in a knot below her breasts. Not much showed. The cloth carelessly revealed soft curves of flesh and promised more at the slightest movement. She licked her lips and tasted wax. Damn it.

What’s wrong, big girl? Kat’s voice came from the other side of the wall behind her.

I accidentally licked my lips, Sweetie. She turned her head so that Kat could see her face through the gaps in the sagging sheet metal. Did I ruin it?

Nope. Still red enough to lead the May Day parade in Mah Foo Yee City.

She giggled despite her annoyance. I’m such a tart.

Kat’s voice softened. You don’t need makeup. A little hair and lipstick insures our target will lose his inhibitions altogether -- so we get what we’re after.

Anything for Charlie. I wonder what’s keeping Shabas? The kids are flying in today and we need to get ready.

It depends, said Kat. Shabas is a bookie, not a pimp. He’ll need to tell a story, and he’s probably negotiating a fee.

Well, I suppose it’s all right if he makes a few florin.

Kat laughed. "A few? He’s making the sale of the century. C’mon, you’re a real blonde."

A mottled gray van with government markings swung into the head of the access road. Two men sat in the cab. The passenger was their friend, Shabas Napu. The blonde didn’t recognize the driver. The look on his face was all too familiar.

Here comes our pigeon, she whispered.

Stay frosty, big girl. Me and my trusty Taser are here for you.

Just zap him before he touches me. Okay? She pushed away from the wall and faced the approaching truck, hands clasped behind and hips cocked to place one knee in front of the other. As the van rattled to a smoky halt, she tossed her hair and coyly smiled.

***

Dave stepped out of the plane and into Sarangong’s punishing summer sunshine. His senses were assaulted by the smells and colors of a botanical riot enthusiastically promoted by rich volcanic soil and a tropical climate. The air felt thick with suffocating humidity, smelling of hibiscus and compost. He shared a look with Debbie, took her hand, and led the way across the tarmac into the aging airport terminal. Rattling air conditioners wheezed some freshness into the atmosphere, which the surviving ceiling fans weakly stirred. Dirt and vines sufficiently occluded the skylights in the vaulting roof to block most of the merciless heat.

When he glanced at his wife, she smiled and squeezed his hand. Poor kid, this was some homecoming for her. Thirty-seven hours in airplanes with the noise, turbulence, interrupted sleep, bad food, worse coffee, inconsiderate asses, vanishing flight attendants, and miasmic toilets. Her navy sheath showed the signs of long travel. She looked terrific in spite of the rumpling. His permanent-press, casual suit fared less well. The wine stains had come out, but the results of an impromptu washing in club soda were unfortunate. Dave knew he needed a shave and his clothes chafed.

The baggage handlers set their luggage apart from that of travelers with Sarangong passports or official escorts. A small, balding man in a gray customs uniform monitored the process. His nametag identified him as Senior Customs Inspector Kang.

Follow me, please, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas.

Kang pushed the cart bearing their luggage and they trailed. Everything appeared to have deteriorated since the last time they’d been in-country, over ten years ago. Signs of water damage were visible on most surfaces. Extensive mildew stains explained the allergy symptoms he felt in his nose and eyes.

In every direction, Dave saw faces turned their way. The attention was unavoidable. That knowledge didn’t loosen his jaw. Their small procession turned into a side corridor and away from curious gawpers. Scuffed marble transitioned to threadbare carpeting. The ceiling dropped to an ordinary height. Office and utility room doors lined the walls. Kang stopped at a door with a sheet of paper taped to it. The handwritten sign announced, Customs Inspection Room Number 12.

Stepping aside, Kang motioned for the Douglases to enter. The official avoided looking at Debbie when she passed. He favored Dave with an expression of calm authority. Dave stiffened at the small man’s show of power and then quickly averted his eyes. No sense confronting a trivial civil servant. He clearly heard his father-in-law’s refined English baritone sharing one of a wealth of aphorisms. Davy, my boy. John Wyndham was the only human being on the planet allowed to call him by that name. In the insular satrapies of officialdom of the People’s Republic of Sarangong, diplomacy is required at every encounter. The Douglases’ departure briefing by Homeland Defense included the potential consequences of incaution, which ranged from the inconvenient to the unthinkable.

A folding table divided Customs Inspection Room Number 12 down the middle. Two plastic chairs in garish orange faced the peeling, faux woodgrain. A faint kerosene-like odor of insecticide hung in the stagnant air. Dave reached to pull out a chair for Debbie. She shook her head. They stood quietly behind the seats while Kang pushed the cart to the opposite side. He selected the largest suitcase from the cart and placed it on the table. Kang removed their passports and claim tickets from his breast pocket and laid them on the table as well. After checking the stub on the bag for a match, he spoke.

Mr. Douglas, this is your bag?

Yes, Inspector Kang.

May I open this bag for inspection?

Of course.

Kang laid the bag flat, unfastened it, and opened it as one opens a book. This allowed access to the compartments in both halves in full view of the couple. The contents were mostly clothes and shoes. Toilet articles were in a shaving kit and small, zippered pockets. Kang’s unhurried search revealed several items that he placed on the table beside the suitcase: a fifth of Chivas Regal in a gift box, a carton of Marlboros, a digital music player, and a stack of DVDs in jewel cases. He placed the scotch and cigarettes on the floor under the table.

These items are considered morally objectionable contraband by the People’s Republic of Sarangong, Mr. Douglas. I cannot allow you to leave the airport grounds with them.

The inspector carefully handled the DVDs and closely studied the cover of each. The movies represented an eclectic mix of Singaporean, Malaysian, and Indian.

Kang’s voice was nearly a whisper when he spoke. It’s impossible to obtain any of these in Sarangong, given the current government campaign against degenerate influences of global popular culture. He shook himself and spoke normally. I mean, this entertainment may be permissible. It is unfamiliar to me and must pass a review before it can be released. To avoid harmful exposure of the citizenry, the videos and music device will be quarantined until a determination is made.

While examining the DVDs, Kang opened one of the cases. His eyes met Dave’s in silent understanding. He closed the item and placed it under the table.

Mr. Douglas, will you be so kind as to remain here with Mrs. Douglas while I fetch a receipt book?

Inspector Kang, that won’t be necessary. I’m a former resident of Sarangong and my wife holds dual citizenship. We have unqualified faith in the integrity of the state’s representatives. We voluntarily entrust these items to your care until our departure, if that’s acceptable.

Both Dave and Debbie made the traditional sign of respect by pressing their hands together in the manner of prayer and bowing their heads with eyes downcast. Senior Customs Inspector Kang’s demeanor showed no change. For a heart-thumping moment, Dave suspected they’d overdone the ass-kissing.

Kang closed the suitcase and returned it to the cart. Please accept the apologies of the people for this inconvenience, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas. We are grateful for your cooperation and wish you a pleasant stay in our country.

An inkpad and rubberstamps came from a box on the wall. Kang neatly placed visa endorsements in their passports and handed them to Dave. He then opened the door and pulled the luggage cart into the corridor. A few minutes later they were on the curb outside the terminal. Kang flagged a cab for them and helped the driver load the trunk. Inside the battered little sedan, Dave opened a window to make a farewell but Kang had vanished. Debbie grinned to shame the Cheshire cat. The cabby asked for their destination in Sarangongese. Dave replied in English. The man shrugged and Debbie answered in the native tongue. They were on their way.

That was one happy customs man, said Dave. What did you put in that DVD case, young lady?

A crisp, new five-hundred-thousand-florin bill.

You just had to trump my Chivas Regal, didn’t you?

His wife pouted. Not at all. I wanted to include something he could keep for himself. You know darned well his boss will get the liquor and most of the cigarettes. He can’t sneak the movies out either. That money will fold nicely into a place only Inspector Kang knows about and where no one else will look.

Dave squirmed as if he sat on a hot coal. There’s a lovely visual.

Debbie laughed. You’re an idiot.

A sign in the median proudly declared they traveled The People’s Prosperity Thoroughfare, Mah Foo Yee City 17 Km. Sarangong’s capital was known in colonial times as Nieuw Assen. The broad boulevard once was lined with trees and divided by flowerbeds. Weathered stumps indicated the local populace long since harvested all that teak for more pragmatic purposes. Flowers persisted where water grass, weeds, and creepers hadn’t choked them out. The result accentuated the general appearance of decay. Black patches of macadam dotted the concrete roadway. Some made bumps and others dips. Several places had crumbled away. A few of the larger gaps caused the decrepit suspension of the taxi to bottom out. Dave braced a hand against the roof and Debbie shoved herself against him.

Taro fields, thatched huts, rice paddies, and coconut groves gave way to shantytowns, tenement slums, warehouses, and nondescript urban congestion. Their cab, like all the other cars, buses, and trucks that maneuvered through the streets, narrowly avoided other vehicles and the swarms of bicyclists, constantly blared the horn, and ignored all attempts at traffic control. Pedestrians desiring to cross the street took their lives into their own hands. The nightmare ended upon arrival at their destination.

Revolutionary Martyrs Hotel and Convention Center. Dave opened his door and unfolded onto the curb. According to the Michelin Guide, it’s the only place in town with western-style accommodations and consistently sanitary food preparation.

Really? How many stars?

Here’s a real surprise. None.

Debbie paid the driver and Dave transferred luggage from the taxi to a dolly held by a bellboy in a white Mao suit. The kid’s eyes popped at the pile and he strained to get the overburdened cart moving. When Debbie joined him, Dave pointed to a place high on the front of the building. She glanced at where the huge H once hung. Its absence made obvious by the stanchions jutting out of the wall. As if for the reassurance of foreigners, the brass door plates still bore the pre-Revolution logo.

Look at this, Dave. The murals depicting the heroism and sacrifices of the martyrs continue from the outside right into the lobby. Debbie made the compliment loudly enough to be heard by the staff.

Dave pretended to admire the artwork.

After they registered and surrendered their passports to the desk clerk, the Douglases relaxed in the restaurant. The dimly lit room held more Caucasians than they’d seen in one place since getting on a puddle jumper in Manila.

Debbie waved a hand in front of her face. Where there’s smoke --

There must be adult refreshments, he finished. The international sign indicating the availability of alcohol.

I suppose businessmen and tourists expect the stuff. Outright prohibiting liquor seems extreme. The influence of Sharia on the Revolution, I suppose.

Dave studied the bar. You see those harmless, fruity concoctions wearing paper parasols?

As corny as Don Ho, said Debbie. But the idea of asking for a shot of cleaning fluid is just silly.

He leaned toward her and mocked a conspiratorial tone. Technically, makala is a disinfecting agent.

That sounds better?

Truth in advertising left with the Dutch.

She wrinkled her nose. And only a few Party big shots have license to make the stuff. What hypocrites.

Well, economics by legal loophole is certifiable. The foreigners get their jollies and money changes hands. Dave scanned the other tables. There’s only one problem with dispensing 180 proof rocket fuel.

Newbies getting a snoot full? She followed his gaze. Can’t have the uninitiated swinging from chandeliers. The Safety and Morals cops frown on that sort of behavior. How’s everyone doing?

Dave people-watched for a few seconds longer, trying to get a good look at the other patrons’ faces. The gloom created by heavy draperies and haphazard lighting complicated the task. None of their fellow guests appeared to be incipient light fixture trapezists. I was worried about that guy in the blue shirt. I think he passed out.

She turned in the direction he nodded. He looks very peaceful, considering he’s using an ashtray for a pillow.

We’d better keep an eye on him. Something might be smoldering under his hair.

Debbie shook her head. It’s strange to see a business type smashed so early in the day. Things must be worse than we imagined. She looked toward the people at the bar. If the government is making life hard for off-shore capitalists, they’ll keep out the kind of paper that’s actually worth something.

Dave continued checking out the place. If there were surveillance cameras, they were well-hidden. Not to mention all those corrupting goods and services. Which means they’re serious about purging foreign influences from their precious little workers’ paradise. Dave scowled and his fingertips drummed the table. Didn’t the Red Guards go nuts like this about a hundred years ago? I hope we find Dad before the gangsters running the place.

Easy, big fella. Debbie patted his arm. He’s a tough, old dude. I’ll bet anything he’s just hiding out because he stepped on the wrong bureaucrat’s toes. Dad never could keep his mouth shut or his enthusiasm curbed, but he isn’t zealous enough to get himself killed.

That’s what I thought, until he decided to come back twenty years after getting the official invitation to leave. Crazy. If he was having a mid-life crisis, why didn’t he buy a Porsche?

She nodded, a frown wrinkled her forehead. He seemed to be dealing with Mom’s death pretty well and he’s several years from retirement. I wonder what was so important that he had to come now? Especially considering the political mess.

Dave rubbed his eyes. Crazy.

Debbie placed her hand on Dave’s. She stared at something in the lobby. A short, chubby woman stuffed into a badly tailored pink dress approached their table. She wore the sour aspect of distasteful duty. In the crook of her arm was a clipboard holding passports with blue covers.

Chapter Two

As Pink Dress approached, Dave pushed back his seat.

Pink Dress patted the air. Please, sit, Mr. Douglas. She spoke in heavily accented English. There is no need for empty social rituals.

Dave kept his seat. He glanced at Debbie. She avoided his gaze and schooled her expression. The woman seated herself at their table and arranged her paperwork.

I am S&M Officer Tubui.

Debbie didn’t outwardly react to the pronouncement. Dave saw light dance in her eyes.

The People’s Republic of Sarangong welcomes the return of our friends from your country. Officer Tubui recited while rolling her eyes. She switched to Sarangongese and asked, Mrs. Douglas, you hold dual citizenship?

That’s correct.

Your family emigrated when you were a child?

Yes, I was eleven years old. My mother is native but my father --

Was not. The words came with a sneer. He was a lackey to the oppressors who operated the Copperhead Mining Company?

Debbie slowly crossed her arms. Her expression didn’t change. Yes.

Tubui sighed. What is the purpose of your visit?

Pleasure. We’re going to the north side of the island to visit my relatives.

Where is that, Mrs. Douglas?

Aluala Lagoon.

Near the place of exploitation, the old mine?

Not far.

Dave could hear ice creeping into his wife’s tone.

How long will you be staying at the hotel?

Two days, to rest from traveling and make arrangements for the visit.

Tubui flipped through the pages on her clipboard and then picked up Debbie’s passport, waving it. You’re traveling on a US passport.

Yes.

Why?

To accompany my husband through customs.

Is that the only reason? Tubui regarded Dave with a sidelong glance.

I don’t understand.

The woman’s entire body convulsed in a slow-motion spasm of contempt. It