In the sweltering heat of Tan Son Nhut Airport, Mike shifted his weight as he waited for his assignment. The din of military aircraft mixed with civilian planes grated on his nerves. Sweat trickled down his back as he scanned the arrivals area, mentally rehearsing his cover story. Guardian Security hadn’t told him much about his VIP—just a picture and a name: Jane Wade, a UPI correspondent he’d accompany to Vientiane, Laos.

Mike checked his weapon, concealed under his light jacket. His orders from Dani were clear: protect Jane Wade while maintaining his cover and gather intelligence on Kane’s operation. The dual mission made his stomach tighten.

A woman entered the terminal, catching Mike’s attention before he confirmed it was her. She paused to help a Vietnamese woman struggling with her packages, speaking to her in flawless Vietnamese—not tourist phrases but fluid conversation. Her safari shirt and fitted jeans suggested someone who knew her way around a war zone. The camera bag slung over her shoulder showed wear from hard use.

“Miss Wade?” Mike stepped forward. “I’m Mike McCall, your Guardian Security escort.” He studied Jane Wade’s face as recognition dawned in her eyes. Her expression remained neutral, assessing him with the scrutiny of someone who interviewed people for a living.

“Guardian Security.” She adjusted her camera bag on her shoulder, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Let me be clear about something, Mr. McCall. This wasn’t my idea.”

“I don’t understand, ma’am.” Mike kept his voice neutral, though her directness surprised him.

Jane glanced around the bustling terminal, lowering her voice. “UPI has a contract with Guardian. Standard procedure for correspondents heading into certain areas.” She emphasized the word ‘certain’ with subtle disdain. “I’ve been covering this region for three years without a babysitter.”

The terminal echoed with announcements in three languages as a group of Marines pushed past, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. Their faces looked impossibly young beneath their crew cuts.

Mike nodded, recognizing that she saw him as an obstacle to getting her story or, worse, as a company spy reporting back to her editors.

“I’m just here to make sure you get where you need to go safely, Miss Wade.”

“Jane,” she corrected, then sighed. “Look, Mike, I know you’re just doing your job. But I’ve built relationships with local sources who won’t talk if you’re hovering over my shoulder. I need access they won’t grant with an American security contractor standing next to me.”

Mike caught the slight emphasis on American. She didn’t rely on military press officers for her stories.

“I’m not here to interfere with your reporting,” Mike said. “But Guardian’s contract with UPI is pretty specific about Vientiane.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed slightly. She checked her watch, the battered face suggesting it had survived more than just office work. “Our flight leaves in forty minutes. I need coffee before we board.”

She turned toward the terminal café. Her strawberry-blonde hair caught the afternoon sun, a few stubborn strands curling at her temples in the humid air.

“You’re younger than the others,” she said, a hint of amusement softening the assessment. “Kane usually sends his ex-Marines. The kind who think a press badge is just a target indicator.”

Her comment stung more than he expected. He wasn’t here to impress her, but he’d be damned if she left thinking he was just a green recruit. “I did a tour as a SEAL team scout,” Mike replied, keeping pace with her through the crowded terminal. “I’m trained to handle anything that might come up.”

“Good,” she said, shouldering her camera bag. “Because where we’re going, knowledge of the territory matters more than stripes on your sleeve. Shall we? I have a deadline, and Vientiane isn’t getting any closer.”

Mike picked up her bag, noting that Jane traveled light, like someone who knew she might need to move quickly. At the café, Jane ordered coffee in Vietnamese but switched to French when the waiter responded. Mike registered her language skills, filing away this detail. Someone who spoke the local languages could operate independently of official channels, making her valuable and potentially dangerous to his mission.

“So,” Jane said, stirring sugar into her coffee, “how long have you been with Guardian?”

“One month,” Mike admitted.

Jane’s coffee cup paused halfway to her lips. “Interesting. Very interesting, indeed.” She set her cup down with deliberate care. “Tell me, Mike, why would Guardian send a novice security contractor to escort a journalist into Laos?”

The question hung in the humid air between them. Mike felt the first real stirring of danger—not from external threats but Jane’s perception. She was already connecting dots he couldn’t afford to have connected.

“Guardian would not have assigned me if they didn’t think I could handle it,” he said, meeting her gaze steadily.

Jane studied him over the rim of her coffee cup, her green eyes calculating. “You mentioned being a SEAL scout. Did you ever operate near Pakse?” She named the Laotian river town with deliberate casualness, testing him. “Beautiful country up there. Though I hear it’s gotten complicated.”

Mike’s pulse quickened, though his expression remained neutral as Jane mentioned Pakse. She deliberately chose a sensitive location that didn’t appear in newspaper headlines or official military briefings. The question was casual but loaded with implications.

“Beautiful country,” he echoed, buying himself seconds to think. His mind raced through the parameters of his cover story. Guardian Security contractor, former SEAL—both true. But how much operational detail could he acknowledge without raising red flags? Pakse wasn’t just any location; it was a staging area for cross-border operations that officially never happened. “I’ve passed through,” Mike finally said, measuring each word. “Mostly river work.”

Jane set down her cup, eyes never leaving his face. “The Mekong gets treacherous near there. Especially at night.”

The memory flashed unbidden—moonless nights on muddy banks, Le’s silent hand signals, the weight of weapons and responsibility. He’d written sanitized after-action reports that bore little resemblance to what happened.

“You seem to know the region well,” Mike deflected, uncomfortable with how easily she’d steered the conversation into classified territory.

“Three years of asking questions teaches you what people don’t want to talk about.” She adjusted her camera bag, checking her watch again. “The Pathet Lao control most areas outside Vientiane now. Makes for interesting border crossings.”

Mike nodded, conscious of the thin line he walked. She’d mark him as another company man if he revealed too little. Too much, and he’d compromise operational security—or worse, his cover for Dani. “I respect your experience in the region,” he said finally. “But my job is to keep you safe, not discuss prior ops.”

A smile flickered across Jane’s face, genuine this time. “Fair enough, Mike. But in my experience, what keeps people safe in Laos isn’t firepower—it’s knowing which questions not to ask.”

* * *

The airport’s speakers crackled with their boarding announcement. Mike collected Jane’s bag, noting how she scanned the terminal one last time—not casually, but with the systematic assessment of someone cataloging potential threats. Perhaps they weren’t so different after all.

They walked across the tarmac toward the waiting Air Vietnam DC-3. Heat waves distorted the air above the runway, and the smell of jet fuel mixed with the earthy scent of coming rain. A distant rumble of thunder promised afternoon storms—typical for this time of year.

Jane settled into her seat, running a hand through her wind-tousled hair. The late afternoon sun, slanting through the window, caught the amber highlights, softening her professional facade. “I shouldn’t be hard on you because you’re new at your job,” she said, her voice carrying a touch of weariness. “God knows I was treated worse. When I arrived, there were no women in the press corps. I was often told that I didn’t belong here.”

“How long have you been in Vietnam?”

“Three years, next month.” She gave a quick, sardonic smile that didn’t quite hide the pride underneath. “Started writing spec articles for Vietnamese papers, getting paid local rates—which meant practically nothing.” Her fingers traced the worn leather strap of her camera bag. “I wanted to understand what was happening here. My coverage of the US Embassy attack during Tet got me in with UPI.”

Mike’s jaw tightened at the mention of Tet. The muscle memory of those days sent a familiar tension through his shoulders. “I was in the field during Tet. We came out of the jungle to find our base overrun, bodies everywhere.”

Jane studied him, her reporter’s instinct catching the shadow that crossed his face. “Tet was the turning point, wasn’t it? For all of us.”

“It was for me.” Mike’s fingers brushed the spot where his combat ribbons would be if he were in uniform. His voice dropped. “After that, they put me in the Phoenix Program.”

Jane’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Phoenix?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the engine noise. “I want to talk to you about that, but later.” She glanced at her watch, then pulled a thick manila folder from her bag. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do before we get to Vientiane.”

Her hands hesitated over the folder, tracing its corners as if to steady herself. Mike caught a glimpse of something beneath her confident veneer—a flicker of worry unmasked by fatigue or perhaps a moment of trust. She flipped through her notes, and her shoulders slumped just a fraction with the weight of something unseen.

The plane lifted off with a shudder, banking over Saigon. Through the scratched window, Mike watched the city recede—a sprawling maze of streets and alleyways, American bases and Buddhist temples, all the contradictions of a country at war with itself. Kane was running his operation somewhere down there, moving artifacts through channels Mike was only beginning to understand.

The stewardess offered drinks in three languages. Mike declined with a shake of his head, his mind mapping what he knew against Jane’s obvious interest in Laos. The pieces didn’t fit yet, but he sensed they played the same game from different angles.

Jane closed her folder an hour into the flight and turned to him. The plane’s frame groaned with turbulence, the stale cabin air thick with fuel and unspoken tension. Jane glanced at Mike as his gaze flitted from passenger to passenger. His posture relaxed enough to avoid suspicion, but his eyes remained alert, missing nothing.

“Mike,” she said, leaning closer to ensure their conversation wouldn’t carry. “Time for a briefing.”

His attention snapped to her, his jaw tightening like a soldier preparing for orders. She met his gaze and kept her tone light. “Relax, you’re not under fire here.”

That earned her a faint smirk, and he shifted his weight to face her, the plane’s cramped seats forcing their knees to touch.

“Here’s the short version,” she began, flipping the folder shut and placing it on her lap. “The Laotian government claims to be neutral—on paper.” Her fingers brushed against the folder as she leaned back, watching his expression. “But in practice? They’re aligned with the US.”

Mike’s brow furrowed. “Sounds messy.”

“It is.” She folded her hands and tilted her head, gauging how much detail she could offer. “The messy part is the Pathet Lao, a communist group backed by North Vietnam. They control large chunks of the country.”

His gaze flickered back to the passengers before returning to her. “And we’re fighting them?”

“Not officially.” Her lips quirked at the irony. “That’s where the CIA comes in. They’re running a secret war—using the Royal Lao Government and local anti-communist forces, like the Hmong, as proxies.” She hesitated, her fingers tapping the folder. “It’s ugly, Mike. The kind of ugly that doesn’t make headlines.”

The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, and Jane gripped her armrest. When she continued, her voice had dropped even lower. “Look, my trip isn’t just about the peace conference. I’m meeting a source who claims to have evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” Mike asked, his voice matching her hushed tone.

“The CIA is funding its war with smuggling operations,” she said. “My source claims Air America planes are moving opium and religious artifacts.

The Buddha statue in Mike’s pocket seemed to grow heavier. The connections between Jane’s investigation and his mission to infiltrate Kane’s organization began forming in his mind.

“Any proof of this?” he asked, careful to sound skeptical rather than too interested.

Jane hesitated, then nodded. “Photos. Documentation. Flight manifests with cargo that doesn’t match official records. But I need more—firsthand testimony, ideally.”

“And your source can provide that?”

“He says he can provide evidence linking the smuggling operation to Air America and the CIA,” Jane said.

She left the implication hanging. Mike’s pulse quickened as the pieces began to align. Kane’s operation might be more than just a private smuggling ring—it could be part of a larger CIA-sanctioned network funneling artifacts through official channels. The Air America connection made disturbing sense; those planes could move anything across borders without customs interference.

He’d been sent to investigate Kane, but what if Kane was just one piece of a much larger puzzle? What if Dani already knew about these connections? The thought made his stomach twist. Was he being used as a pawn in some internal CIA power struggle?

He glanced at Jane, who was watching him with sharp eyes. If her investigation paralleled his own, they might be able to help each other—or they could compromise both missions. Either way, he needed to tread carefully. Getting too close to a journalist posed its risks, especially one as perceptive as Jane.

“You okay there?” Jane asked, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

Mike nodded, forcing his expression to remain neutral. “Just thinking about security implications.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. If Jane’s source were exposing CIA operations, someone would want to silence them both. His job of protecting her had just become significantly more complicated.

He needed to report this to Dani—but how much could he trust her now? The mission parameters were shifting beneath his feet, and Mike felt truly alone for the first time since returning to Vietnam.

“You’ve got good sources,” he said, carefully neutral.

Jane shrugged, but he caught the flash of pride in her eyes. “You learn things when people don’t think you matter.”

That rang true. Mike thought of his time scouting—how invisibility revealed truths that power concealed.

“And your source?” he asked. “You trust him?”

“Trust is relative in Vientiane.” She tapped the folder with a fingernail chipped from fieldwork. “But his information checks out against what I’ve verified independently.”

Mike nodded, impressed by her caution. She wasn’t walking in blind or being played—at least not obviously. The journalist he’d expected to babysit was instead someone who might understand the complexities he navigated daily.

“Most people see what they want to see,” he said. “You don’t.”

“Neither do you,” Jane replied, studying him with renewed interest.