Free Salty by Mark Haskell Smith Page B

least he hoped, be a quick way to go; swept out to sea, drowned under millions of gallons of water. It was the aftermath of the tsunami that caused his skin to crawl. The stink of corpses left on the beach, the dead animals hanging from trees. The sewage systems—already primitive at best—overwhelmed and spewing fecal matter everywhere. From Ben’s point of view, the tsunami was bacteria’s best friend. If he thought about it long enough, imagined being trapped in that germ-intense environment, he’d break out in a cool sweat and feel tingles of imaginary fever—cholera, smallpox, yellow fever—beginning to spread through his body.
    For most of his tour of duty he’d been in Bangkok, and while the capital city had its share of fetid and scary places, it was for the most part modern, with hot running water, antiseptic soap, Western toilets—all the things you needed to keep from getting sick. Armed with a bottle of antibacterial hand gel, he could go out into the city with confidence and slowly acclimate to the strangeness, the clamor, humanity, and humidity of life in Southeast Asia. Now he was going out into uncharted waters. Even though it was only a one-hour flight, he’d be leaving the quasi-sanitary comforts of the big city.
    To prepare for the trip south, Ben had started taking a course of antibiotics as a prophylactic. Be prepared.
    â€¦
    It didn’t surprise him that tourists had been kidnapped. The south of Thailand butts up right next to Malaysia, and, as everyone knows, Malaysia is a Muslim country. And a Muslim country is a place teeming with potential terrorists. It would be easy for one of these “terror cells” to go up to Phuket and assault tourists from the developed world. Like the disco bombing in Bali, where hundreds of Australians were killed, Ben was just surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.
    Ben was surprised by the mix of people on the plane: Thais, Saudis, Norwegians, Swedes, Brits, Australians, French, German, Chileans. He was the lone American. Mostly they were families or couples going on their honeymoon. People ready to lie around on the beach, snorkel, and get sunburned.
    Ben didn’t understand it.
    People paying good money to fly on germ-infested airplanes and land in germ-infested countries where they’d sit around and eat food that was guaranteed to teach them the ABCs of hepatitis. A honeymoon, an anniversary trip, a vacation spent soaking in a pandemic soup.
    The sex tourists were the worst. Didn’t they know that HIV infection rates were soaring in Southeast Asia? Why did they arrive in droves and head, salivating, to the seediest brothels in the world? Why did they risk their lives? Was Thai pussy that good?
    â€¦
    The airport in Phuket was small and tidy, like an airport in Duluth or Boise. The only strangeness was a large section of rows of identical orange chairs with a sign saying: RESERVED FOR MONK . Ben didn’t see a monk anywhere.
    He followed the rest of the passengers down corridors lined with ads for undersea adventure, coral reef exploration, Thai dining and dancing, parasailing, deep sea fishing, and other assorted resort activities. The good life. A perfect target for terror.
    At baggage claim, a driver from the resort was standing by the door wearing a khaki uniform and white pith helmet. He held a little sign that read: MR. HARDING, USA . Ben shook his head in dismay. If the terror cell was watching the airport, his cover was blown.
    Ben nodded to the driver.
    â€œI’m Harding.”
    The driver bowed stiffly and handed him a manila envelope.
    â€œThis is for you, sir. Do you have any bags?”
    â€œJust this.”
    The driver took Ben’s small carry-on.
    â€œThe car is waiting.”
    â€¦
    It was hotter in Phuket than in Bangkok. But at least the traffic was mellow. It was rural, relaxed. The roads were clear and the streets seemed clean. Ben was glad that the driver had left