Red Tide, стр. 70
In fact, the black-market cigarette trade was so pervasive, that the government was losing an estimated 360 million Vietnamese dong every year.
Most of the tax-free coffin nails were being smuggled in from the Philippines, which was a net exporter of tobacco products, and only a hop, skip and a jump away. That’s where things got interesting.
Kelsey felt a gentle thump as Wride put the plane down, and taxied toward the dilapidated dock where a pink float plane was moored. It had been red at one time. But that was before decades spent baking in the sun. A fuel pump was located near the plane.
As the Seastar got closer Kelsey saw a sign that read: “Joe’s Air Tours.” Not the fanciest logo—but clear enough. The reservoir was a tourist destination. Or had been prior to the war. And, by hiring a float plane, visitors could sample the best resorts, beaches and scenic vistas in a matter of hours.
Wride brought the plane in next to the floating dock. Brody hopped out to tie up. “I’m going to visit with Joe,” Wride announced. “And buy some fuel. I’m guessing he has some overpriced refreshments for sale if you’re thirsty.”
All of them wanted to stretch their legs, Kelsey included. She followed the pilots to the ramshackle building which clearly served as both a home and office.
A screen door opened into a messy room with no AC other than a fan. It was furnished with mismatched furniture and what appeared to be a brand-new refrigerator.
The man in the swivel chair had thin hair, a red nose, and a noticeable paunch. “Well, well. Will wonders never cease? Candy Wride. A stripper’s name if I ever heard one. How ‘bout a lap dance?”
“How ‘bout some fuel?” Wride replied. “Assuming it’s any good.”
“I use it,” Joe answered, as if that was all she needed to know. “I like your play pretty. What is that? A Dornier?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a nice one, that is. Where you headed?”
“Hanoi,” Wride lied.
“Sure, you are,” Joe said cynically. “Well, wherever you’re going, be careful. I took a trip east last week, and a Chengdu J-7 buzzed me. The pilot spoke perfect English, and wanted me to provide a clearance code, or land on the nearest pond.”
Vietnam was officially neutral but had been forced to let the Chinese air force use its airspace. Kelsey frowned. “And?”
Joe swiveled his gaze. “Who’s this? She’s pretty hot.”
“She’s my boss,” Wride said, as she lit a cigarette.
“Okay then, here’s what happened. My passenger, a man who shall remain nameless, gave me a code and the J-7 went away.”
Joe riffled through the stuff next to him, found what he was looking for, and gave a slip of paper to Wride. “There you go, sweet buns. Maybe it’s still good, and maybe it isn’t.”
“That’s nice of you,” Kelsey said. “But why?”
“Cynics,” Joe replied. “They’re everywhere. This may surprise you baby cakes, but I was forty pounds lighter back in the day, and I had all of my hair. Candy and I, well, we ran into each other in Sydney one night—and the rest is history.”
Wride blew a column of smoke into the air. “Old history.”
Joe laughed. “Pump your gas ladies. And no, I don’t clean windshields.”
They were back in the air forty-five minutes later. Wride was careful to check in with VATM (Vietnam Air Traffic Management) because, with the exception of Chinese planes, which could come and go as they pleased, the Vietnamese kept a tight grip on their airspace.
The sun was up and the weather was clear. But what would have otherwise been an enjoyable trip was marred by the possibility that a Chinese fighter jet would appear out of nowhere and interfere with the flight.
Fortunately, the Seastar was allowed to reach Da Nang unimpeded. And Kelsey felt a sense of relief as the Port of Da Nang appeared. Parker family ships came and went from the harbor all the time. And some had been under her command in years past.
Before the war the port had handled more than 2.7 million tons of cargo. Not counting black market cigarettes that is.
Of course, it was highly unlikely that Madam Nguyen would try to bring her illicit cargos into a port like Da Nang, which was crawling with customs officials. No, with over two thousand miles of coastline available to the smuggler, she would land her cigarettes on deserted beaches, or in tiny fishing villages—where some of the locals were on her payroll.
Merchant ships of every possible description flashed past both sides of the plane as Wride brought it in for a landing. Once on the water Wride had to thread her way between ships, modern junks, and navy vessels to reach the “Happy” seaplane base. It consisted of a floating dock, a barge with a prefab repair facility, and a crane large enough to pluck a plane out of the water.
After being guided into a slip, it was time to tie up and unload. Brody was assigned to stay with the plane. Everyone else carried their bags up two flights of switch backing stairs to a waterfront street where two black SUVs were waiting.
After accepting the keys to both, and tipping the rental car employees, Chaney assigned Smith to drive the second vehicle. Their hotel was located about five miles away, on the west side of the bay, near a marine terminal. And that’s where the company’s agent was waiting to meet them. His name was Tony Chin. And, in keeping with the Parker family’s executive dress code, he was wearing a dark suit and well-polished oxfords.
Kelsey knew him and they shook hands. “Hi Tony, how’s the wife? Has she divorced you yet?”
Chin grinned. “Nope. We’re still on our honeymoon. It’s my mother she wants to divorce.”
Kelsey laughed. “I suggest that you side with your wife.”
Chin nodded. “I agree.”
“So, what’s the situation? Are we still locked in