Apricot Marmalade and the Sangsuwan Equation

By Lon Orey

Well, those Apricot Marmalade guys are at it again! In this sequel to Apricot Marmalade and the Edmondson Transmittal, Special Agents Reynolds, Bonner, Wilson, Dunn, and Cooper are again matching wits with KGB spies and other enemy agents in Thailand during the Vietnam War, with the battleground practically next door. Ed Reynolds faces new challenges that keep him on his toes but seemingly just one step ahead of a court martial. Irv Bonner gets a new assignment in the northern part of the country that puts his life at risk but also brings him a chance at a meaningful romance. The team's biggest challenge in this go-around is to track down a physics graduate student who is intent on developing a nuclear device. His plan: to threaten a major Thai city with extinction, unless his demands are met. The group is racing against the clock to stop tens of thousands of innocent people from being vaporized.

Satire is alive and well in Apricot Marmalade and the Sangsuwan Equation.

______________________________________________________________________________

PRAISE FOR

APRICOT MARMALADE AND THE EDMONDSON TRANSMITTAL

This book "is a hilarious tale of dysfunctional alphabet intelligence agencies operating in Vietnam-era Thailand . . . Written in a comedic satirical style reminiscent of Catch 22 . . .

-San Francisco Book Review

"What sets the book apart is Orey's sharp pen, comic timing, and crack dialogue, as its scruffy band tracks its marks, deals with GRU agents and arms smugglers, and tries to maybe even see some justice get done. That dialogue and crisp descriptive action are well balanced throughout . . ."

-BookLife (an affiliate of Publishers Weekly)

"Fantastic read . . . I loved this book . .. . I'd recommend Apricot Marmalade and the Edmondson Transmittal to all lovers of historical fiction. All in all, I'd rate it four out of four stars."

-OnlineBookClub.org

"I enjoyed this book. Frankly, it was a delight to read . . . The characters in this story were well developed and memorable . . . fresh and engaging . . . such a good and satisfying story."

-Manhattan Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662485909

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Apricot Marmalade and the Sangsuwan Equation

Lon Orey

Copyright © 2022 Lon Orey

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-8587-9 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8590-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Murder

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

The Sangsuwan Factor

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

The Car Bomb

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

The Hanging

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

The Prisoner Exchange

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

The Sangsuwan Formulas, Equations, and Materials

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Epilogue

Author's Note

Acknowledgements

Prologue

By any measure, 1968 was a very bad year for the United States of America. On January 23, North Korea captured the navy intelligence vessel USS Pueblo, claiming the ship illegally entered its territorial waters, then held its eighty-three crew members against their will for months on end, nearly bringing the two countries into armed conflict.

On April 4, while in Memphis, Tennessee, iconic civil rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, a day after announcing, I've been to the mountaintop.… I have seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land. On June 5, Robert F. Kennedy, former attorney general and then senator and now presidential candidate, suffered a similar fate at a campaign event in Los Angeles, California. Among many other things, Kennedy was known for having said, Some men see things as they are and say ‘why.' I dream things that never were and say ‘why not?'

In August, at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, thousands of students and anti-war activists poured into the city, where their protests were met with a violent police response activated and encouraged by Mayor Richard Daley. Television cameras captured the bloody clashes that followed. The names of Abbie Hoffman, Tom Hayden, and Jerry Rubin became almost as well-known as those of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr.

The year 1968 was also a bad one for the Vietnam War. The Tet Offensive, initiated in late January and featuring several attacks coordinated between North Vietnam and communist Viet Cong forces, overwhelmed and embarrassed South Vietnam and their American allies. This, coupled with the ferocious Battle of Khe Sanh, which lasted for the first several months of the year and resulted in thousands of South Vietnamese and American casualties, sent a compelling message to the folks back home in the US that this Vietnam business wasn't going to be over anytime soon.

Heavily influenced, no doubt, by the war and all its stresses, strains, and controversies, Lyndon Johnson shocked the nation on March 31 by announcing, I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your president. This was an ugly war, and it wasn't getting any better.

Meanwhile, in Bangkok, Thailand, just a stone's throw away from the battleground, the special agents assigned to the 187th Military Intelligence Detachment, the US Army's counterespionage arm, were dealing with the war and its implications for the rest of Southeast Asia in their own way.

Five friends sat around a table at the Hollywood Bar on Petchaburi Road, where they met for a late lunch on a Saturday. Even though they were off duty, they enjoyed one another's company. Despite the fact that this was not a peak time, the Hollywood Bar was packed. There was scarcely a vacant table or empty chair in sight. The waiters and waitresses were fairly sprinting from table to table, trying to keep up with the drink and food orders and the subsequent deliveries. Cigarette smoke and noisy chatter were everywhere.

There were a dozen bars, nightclubs, and restaurants on Petchaburi Road, seemingly stretching from one end to the other. The vast majority of their clientele were Americans, often US servicemen on R&R from Vietnam. The nightclubs generally featured live entertainment with performers dressed in American styles and singing American songs. In most cases, it seemed, the lead singer was female and miniskirted with mid-calf white go-go boots. Most of the customers at these establishments seemed to agree the performers were actually pretty damned good.

Three of the friends seated at the table held the rank of sergeant—Marilyn Dunn, Ed Reynolds, and Don Cooper. The other two were first lieutenants—Doug Wilson and Irv Bonner. Wilson was black, the others white. Dressed very casually today, they could easily have been mistaken for tourists.

The regulation work uniform for all five consisted of civilian clothes, and unless they were on undercover assignments, they each carried a set of credentials identifying them as special agents for US Military Intelligence. For the men, the uniform was typically dark slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a narrow, diagonally striped necktie. The short-sleeved shirts, although not particularly fashionable, were an accommodation to the Southeast Asian climate. For Marilyn, it was usually a light-colored blouse and a dark skirt hitting just above the knee. Ed Reynolds sometimes referred to civilian clothes as the great equalizer, as it allowed officers and enlisted personnel to interact as equals and, in some cases, to become friends. However, their commanding officer, Colonel Morgan, preferred to see rank distinctions preserved and accentuated.

Despite experiencing some harrowing events in recent weeks, these five special agents remained close. Collectively, they had played a major role in thwarting a planned communist coup and takeover of the country, one that would have eliminated the king, queen, and prime minister and replaced them all with the deputy prime minister, a convert to communism, whose intent was to turn the country into a communist dictatorship.

Unfortunately, a key participant in the planned coup had been Kanlaya Chanyangam, longtime girlfriend of Ed Reynolds. He had been devastated to learn about her involvement and her death, an accidental by-product of the face-saving suicide of her father. Ed wasn't over her yet, and he wasn't sure he ever would be.

Looking around the Hollywood Bar, a colorful place with an upbeat aura, Ed Reynolds concluded that at least three-quarters of its customers today were GIs on R&R from their assignments in Vietnam. Their freshly cropped short hair and their spit-shined shoes gave them away. And they're all so young! Ed thought. Although at twenty-five years of age Ed himself was hardly geriatric, these young men looked incredibly youthful to him—disturbingly so! He doubted if some of them had even started to shave yet.

Leaning forward with both forearms on the table, Don Cooper commented to his friends, "I read an article in the Bangkok World this morning about the war." The Bangkok World was one of the city's two English-language newspapers. Did you know there are now more than half a million US troops in Vietnam?

Yeah. I think we actually passed that threshold a couple months back, noted Marilyn Dunn.

Eyes widening, Ed Reynolds noted, And in spite of all those people we've poured into that little, itty-bitty country, we're still not winning. From both a philosophical and a practical perspective, he considered US involvement in the war to be a mistake. He loved his country, certainly, but he recognized the fact that it was being run by human beings, and human beings sometimes made mistakes. In fact, as a senior at the University of Washington majoring in journalism, his classmates had voted him as Most Likely to End Up in Handcuffs at a Protest Rally.

You're right, Marilyn observed, shaking her head solemnly. We're not winning, and we've lost tens of thousands of GIs, guys who won't be making it home. Changing the subject, she asked Ed, "Hey, you've still got that The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan album, right, the one with ‘Blowin' in the Wind' on it? Seeing him nod, she added, Nobody talks a song quite like Dylan."

He does have a unique style, doesn't he?

I've been in a very anti-war kind of mood lately. Listening to that might be just what I need.

"And if you're interested, I've got a couple of other war-protest albums I could lend you—Eve of Destruction by Barry McGuire and Turn! Turn! Turn! by the Byrds."

That sounds perfect. I really think I'd like to listen to some heavy-duty stuff and just kind of…wallow in my misery for a while.

With a nod toward Marilyn, Doug Wilson offered, Let me know if you'd like someone to wallow with. The two of them had become romantically involved in recent months.

Marilyn smiled broadly. I just might do that.

I'd like to propose a toast, Wilson announced at that point, lifting his glass and eyeing his colleagues. Here's to the end of the war.

To the end of the war, echoed Irv Bonner, raising his own glass. May it come soon.

Amen—this from Ed Reynolds. If only their words could make it so.

Five glasses clinked softly above the center of the table. A long silence followed while they reflected on these thoughts. It was a profound void that lasted a full two minutes until it was finally filled by Don Cooper. With a rounded but sincere face and short dark hair featuring a clearly defined part, he spoke extensively and very specifically about the physical manifestations of his latest concerns.

It was widely known that Donald M. Cooper Jr. was a hypochondriac of the highest order. He seemed convinced he was destined to die from some exotic disease and frequently made jokes about it, clearly demonstrating a willingness to be a good sport on the topic, and his friends would invariably join in. Because of his ongoing medical concerns, Don often made trips to the 603rd Medical Dispensary located in a downtown Bangkok office building with space leased by the US government. On these visits, he would be invariably attended to by Dr. Swanson, who insisted on being addressed as Captain Dr. Swanson. Rumor had it that his wife, who was here with him in Bangkok, expected to be referred to as Mrs. Captain Dr. Swanson.

After a full ten minutes of symptom description, Don ran a hand down the front of his face as though trying to clear away a cobweb he had just walked through, something he often did when troubled.

You know, Marilyn Dunn said at last, that sounds a lot like something a friend of mine had about a year and a half ago back at Holabird. Located just outside Baltimore, Fort Holabird was the training site for MI agents.

Really? Don inclined his head, hoping Marilyn could shed some light on the matter.

Yeah. It was pretty serious.

Serious, huh?

Yep.

Drawing in a long breath, Don leaned forward in his chair. So don't keep me in suspense. What'd it turn out to be? He steeled himself for her reply.

Marilyn's face took on a severe frown. Well, I hate to have to break this to you, Don, but I think you might be pregnant.

Tilting his head back, Don let out a burst of laughter. That's impossible, he said. I'm on the pill.

Well, you know, the pill doesn't always work. It's not a hundred percent effective.

"Damn, now you tell me."

Part I

The Murder

Chapter 1

Wearing a $12 pair of sunglasses, chinos, and a khaki shirt, Mark Lacey guided his open-air jeep through the main gate and along the gravel road leading into the huge Thai army post, the largest in all the northern sector. As he rolled up to the sentry, the uniformed guard snapped to attention inside his tiny wooden shack painted battleship gray and popped a brisk salute. Returning the salute, Lacey threw in a warm smile for good measure.

Good morning, Corporal Akara. How are you today? Akara was a good man, competent. He knew his job well. In fact, this was a great assignment because Lacey was surrounded by people—both Thai and American—who were capable, decent, and friendly.

Fine, sir, very fine, the corporal replied.

Lieutenant Colonel Spencer G. Morgan, commanding officer of the 187th Military Intelligence Detachment headquartered in Bangkok, 430 miles to the south, had decided it would be advisable to set up a one-man residence office in Chiang Mai to focus on the northern sector. Lacey, a newly promoted young captain, was immensely pleased and honored to have been selected for that role.

In the early days of the assignment, Lacey had to correct the colonel a number of times—gently and diplomatically, of course—regarding the proper pronunciation of the name of the city. Morgan tended to mispronounce it as Chiang May instead of Chiang My. Lacey had finally succeeded by noting, One way to remember it, sir, is this: ‘Chiang Mai—my oh my, what a beautiful city.'

A hundred meters farther into the installation, passing a spate of gray and light-green buildings, Lacey swung left. Then two hundred meters more and he veered to the right. The gravel was loose here, and the jeep slid out to one side slightly at the height of the turn. As he straightened it, he looked upward at the sun while running a hand through his short dark-brown hair. This would be a good day he knew. Things were starting to go his way at last. The intelligence he had been able to acquire recently regarding insurgency activities in the northern sector would prove invaluable. He was sure of that. He had already assembled the information and turned it into a report that was even now being delivered to Colonel Morgan by courier.

And yesterday evening, he had a warm, wonderful long-distance telephone conversation with his aunt Marjorie in Des Moines, Iowa. She had raised him from the age of eight, taking him in when both of Mark's parents were killed in an automobile collision. Aunt and nephew had bonded more and more over the years.

Aunt Marjorie never married, although there had been several suitors over the last decade or so and a couple of near misses. Yesterday, she told him about a new beau, a history professor at a nearby community college. Thus far, their relationship had consisted of two dinners at two very fine restaurants and one excellent movie, The Graduate. Even though their experiences together had been limited, it appeared that there was real chemistry afoot. She was excited over the prospect, and Mark was excited for her. Yes, this would be a great day indeed!

Mark Lacey passed the JUSMAG house—the Joint US Military Assistance Group. He didn't bother to honk or wave this morning, as he knew that both Major Patterson and Staff Sergeant Williams were beginning their leaves today—close friends despite their difference in rank. Pattaya, a popular resort on the Gulf of Siam, that was where they were headed. Swimming, water-skiing, and sunning—those were all on the agenda. And if they happened to meet a couple of vacationing women while there, so much the better.

About seventy-five meters farther, in the back corner of the compound and substantially isolated from the rest of it, Lacey pulled up in front of a small building. It was square and one-storied and unimaginative in design. It had recently been painted a drab green color—not his idea. Some of the paint had dribbled down onto the four panes of glass that made up the lone front window. It had dried there in a few crusty streaks that as of yet, no one had taken the time to scrape away. He vowed he would take care of it himself sometime this week.

For some reason Lacey had never quite understood—something to do with a military-civilian labor dispute—the porch had not been painted at all. Parts of it had started to rot, and one of the three steps leading up to it was missing, evidently stolen about two weeks ago for reasons that remained a mystery. Since then, a long, anteloping stride had been needed to span the gap between the first and third steps.

In truth, this unorthodox structure was a homely sight. But for Mark Lacey, it held a certain important, if not elegant, beauty, for this was his office, his second home. Sometimes, he would feel a mild shiver crawl up his spine when he thought about the incredible responsibility that implied. One lone MI agent responsible for intelligence collection and counterespionage investigations in a potential hotspot like the northern region—important stuff!

Hopping out of the jeep, Lacey took a moment to inspect the tires. Hmm, right front a little bald, he acknowledged silently. Poking a fingernail into one of the shallow grooves, he confirmed this hypothesis. That could be a problem. Better get it taken care of next time I get down to Bangkok, he mused. The other tires looked just fine, thank you very much.

He brushed his now dusty fingertip across the seat of his tan slacks, then pivoted and strode along the narrow sidewalk with grass growing in the cracks. Reaching the steps, it was hop, leap, hop, and onto the porch. He fished in his pocket for the key, found it, withdrew it, inserted it, and twisted it. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. Cooler in here, he noted, but a smell caught his nostrils, the smell of men's cologne, the cheap stuff.

Mark Lacey heard a noise behind him an instant before he felt a dull, heavy pain behind his left ear. The scene in front of him, a scene that somehow seemed to include the broad, grinning face of a distinctly Chinese-looking man, dissolved slowly as Lacey crumpled to the floor. All consciousness seeped from his mind, and all feeling seeped from his body, and both merged somewhere in infinity in a billowy gray cloud.

We must work quickly, a gravelly voice instructed someone else in Thai. The two men took hold of the numbed limbs of the American and dragged him through the back door and out to the center of a large, irregularly shaped patch of dirt. It was an area greatly shielded from view by trees and tall shrubs. Here, they dumped him unceremoniously on his face, leaving his hands and arms pinned under his chest.

One of the men left but returned in short order, carrying a large can of gasoline in each hand. As he walked, he hummed the tune of Loi Krathong, a popular Thai holiday song. Then Lacey's limp form was doused with the contents of both cans: his clothes, his hair, and the exposed side of his face—every part of his body. The last few drops of the volatile liquid were used to moisten the ground surrounding the form, creating a deadly ring. Perhaps out of an interest in tidiness, the empty containers were next tossed into a trash receptacle sitting beside the back door of the building.

The men stepped back now, staring at the slow-breathing shape on the ground, anticipating the scene that was about to unfold. The man on the end farthest from the building struck a match with a flourish and flipped it into the ring on the ground. Instantly, a mammoth yellow flame erupted in front of them in a brilliant flash that forced their hands up sharply to shield their eyes, and they stepped back even farther. The flame grew, and as it expanded, it made a transit across a wide range of colors.

It continued to soar as it licked tantalizingly at the tips of several of the low-hanging branches of a nearby merkusii pine tree, nearly setting them ablaze, and there was noise. It was almost deafening. The sound of the raging, living heat masked every other sound in the immediate area, even what might have been the hoarse screams of a man people once knew as Mark Lacey.

Chapter 2

Headquarters of the 187th Military Intelligence Detachment in Bangkok was abuzz with talk of the tragic death of Mark Lacey. Mark was beloved by everyone, it seemed, and his horrific murder had visibly rattled them all. From Lieutenant Colonel Spencer G. Morgan at the top of the organization to Specialist Fourth Class Alexander Finsky near the bottom, they were all stunned.

To further complicate matters, Lacey's primary contact in the northern sector had disappeared, probably either killed or kidnapped. He had been a valuable asset, a steady source of information regarding communist terrorist plans and activities in the region. Lacey had recently hinted to Colonel Morgan that something big was brewing and that his subagent was sniffing it out.

That afternoon, the colonel summoned his operations officer, Major Orville Harris, to his office. He signaled for the major to close the door and then to have a seat. Occupying the northwest corner of the suite that took up the entire eighth floor of the Chairanee Building, the colonel's office had a roominess to it that in some ways resembled a luxurious hotel lobby. A soft pecan-colored leather couch was positioned against one of the walls, and a matching pair of overstuffed armchairs was at right angles to it on either end. Two small imitation ferns rested on black wire stands next to the armchairs.

About twelve feet away, three walnut business chairs were arranged directly in front of a massive walnut desk, and behind that was a leather-padded swivel chair. The desk itself was actually a recent replacement for one made of teak. Morgan hated teak. It was so bland, and it seemed to be everywhere in this country. It took nearly four months for the army's procurement people to get him the walnut replacement he had requisitioned, but it was worth the wait. As beautiful as it was, though, it was cluttered with file folders, loose sheets of paper, pens and pencils, and two staplers of different sizes and colors, both of which always seemed to be out of staples.

Approximately three-quarters of the beige tile floor was covered by a plush area rug—thick, buoyant, and a rich shade of tan. The walls were an eggshell color; and they were laden with a score of framed photographs, certificates, and awards, mostly indicators of Morgan's various military achievements over the years, real or imagined.

A large window behind the couch offered a sweeping view of much of the city—clogged streets, tall office buildings, and a single-story hardware store. The small hardware establishment was owned by an elderly Chinese couple, who steadfastly refused to sell to the burgeoning businesses on either side. You can buy it from our children when we are dead, they were fond of saying. As usual, the colonel's office smelled of cigar smoke.

Spencer Morgan was a man of average height and build in his late forties. Like his hair, his eyes were steel gray. The tip of his nose bent ever so slightly to the right, but his mouth was a firm straight line. His chin was weak, but not conspicuously so. In one hand, Morgan was holding a two-page document while wearing an expression of deep concern. With the other hand, he was drumming his fingers on the desk. Major, he said, we need to replace Captain Lacey up in Chiang Mai as soon as we can.

You're probably right about that, sir. Harris crossed his legs, such that the right ankle rested on the left knee, and he leaned back in his chair.

It's the country's second-largest city, and that whole sector seems to be heating up. Morgan added, I've bounced the idea off Lieutenant Wilson to get his astrological take on it, and he gave me the go-ahead. He frequently consulted Doug Wilson, an astrology buff, for advice before making important decisions.

The major nodded. Although he had never shared this viewpoint with the colonel, Harris didn't put much stock in astrology. As far as he was concerned, if you couldn't see it, touch it, taste it, put gas in it, polish it, or drive it, it simply didn't exist.

I'd like you to take a look at this, Morgan continued. It was delivered by Captain Lacey's courier late this morning. Mark Lacey had regularly used a Thai national, who had been thoroughly vetted by MI, as a courier. His first name was Somsak, but Colonel Morgan could never remember his last. Morgan passed the two-page document across to Harris, who began reading it carefully.

Top Secret

Consolidated Report of Guerilla Activities in Northern Thailand, 15 June 1968 (U)

(U) Consolidated monthly agent report submitted in accordance with Directive 97b, USARPAC, dated 7 February 1967.

(C) On 4 June, machine gun fire was directed at the US Consulate in Chiang Mai. It is estimated that approximately fifteen (15) rounds were fired from a passing automobile, a dark-gray Toyota. Minor structural damage was sustained, but no injuries were reported.

(C) On 10 June, a similar incident took place directed at a US-owned travel agency on the outskirts of Chiang Mai. Approximately twelve (12) rounds were fired from a passing car. Again, it was a dark-gray Toyota. No injuries occurred, but minor structural damage was sustained.

(S) Except for the incidents just cited, communist terrorists (CTs) appear to have decreased their subversive activities in the northern sector of Thailand since 30 April of the present year. A total of 5 attacks have been recorded during the period in question, including the two noted above. This figure is substantially below the monthly average of 13.7, computed on the basis of reports compiled during the previous twelve-month period.

(S) Reliable intelligence indicates that attempts at subversion of local villagers and hill tribesmen have been relatively unsuccessful in recent months and, in addition, that propaganda efforts have been less evident.

(U) Reference is made to para 7 of cons rep of December 1967. No change.

(U) Reference is made to