Countdown: H Hour (37 page)

“General . . . civilization requires police. But equally police require civilization. If there is no civilization, if there is only barbarism, with no law that is widely respected, the police are powerless. And you
know
the politicos won’t let your people do anything about it.”

“Soldiers can’t build civilization, either,” Welch said. “But, when allowed, we can destroy barbarism so that civilization can grow, or at least survive. That’s what I’m asking, General. Let me and my men destroy some of the barbarism that’s grown up here.

“And then we’ll get out of your hair.”

“But this . . . ? It’s sure to come out,” Santos objected.

“Actually,” said Aida, “we have a trick for that.”

MV
Richard Bland
east of Caban Island

“So what are we going to do with the hooker?” asked Graft. “Terry said it was up to us.”

“I say we string the cunt up,” Malone replied, “just like Zimmerman.”

There was a general chorus of agreement on that, not least from Zimmerman’s closest comrades.

“She’s not entitled to a trial, at least?” asked Lox.

The men of A Company generally ignored that, except to boo it down. What was a trial to them?

“What are you bitching about, Lox?” Malone asked. “You had the bitch spread-eagled on a table, naked, with electrodes to her tits and clit.”

“Yeah, I did,” Lox agreed. “Wish to hell I hadn’t. Going to be a long time before I forget about that. Going to be a long time before I sleep easy again, if I ever do.”

Lox focused on Malone, intently. “So . . . Malone,” he asked, “you going to put the rope around her neck? She’s tall but she doesn’t weigh much; you going to haul her up? I’m not going to help you. You want to watch her kick? Watch her face turn blue while she gags and tries to puke through the rope? You going to get under her once you tie the rope off so you can enjoy the smell of her shit when she lets loose her bowels?

“Or are you just trying to divert attention from the fact that you fucked up, hmmm?”

Caban Island, Pilas Group, Basilan Province,

Republic of the Philippines

The Philippine Navy landing craft was gone for the time being, bringing the freed slaves back home. It would return in a day or two to extract the Marines, as well.

Paloma Ayala ran fingers through her long hair, culling from it some of the grains of sand the wind had blown up. She sat under an awning put up by her Marines, a defense against the fierce sun overhead. Beside her, in the sand, sat a young girl, apparently much abused. She seemed to be enjoying the spectacle even more than Paloma, herself, was.

Mrs. Ayala’s eyes gazed with satisfaction on the small forest in front of her. There was no trace of pity in them, any more than the Harrikat had shown pity or mercy to her husband. Paloma has asked Maria if she could identify the leader, but the girl answered, no, that she’d never really gotten a good look at him.

When one of the Marines approached to disarm the girl of her knife, Paloma ordered him away. She was quite sure the girl would never harm her with the blade. What she was going to do with the girl she wasn’t nearly as certain of.

But I think maybe I can make good use of someone who hates the Moros as badly as she does.

There were eighty-three crosses fixed upright on the beach. From each, by nails through wrists and heels, hung a man or a corpse. Most still lived, only those badly wounded previously having passed on.

The screaming and the begging were over now. If any man still had energy left, it was only to moan, to weep, and to extend his own life at the cost of much pain.

Janail wasn’t so much a man any more as a thing of pain. Pain was everywhere. It was where his wrists had been penetrated by the nails. It was in every nerve that passed by those wounds, extending from his fingers to his shoulders. It was in the bones of his heels where the nails held him fast to the post, the
stirpes
. It ran from his toes to his thighs. It was every cramped muscle in between, as well. It was an agony in his lungs, struggling to breathe under the strain on his chest.

It was in Janail’s mind, because he knew there would be no relief from the agony until he died. Perhaps worst of all, it was an agony both mental and moral, arising from a kind of moral confusion, as he prayed for death, to a god in which he did not believe, even as his cramped and aching legs pushed up against the piercing nails to relieve his chest and extend his life.

And it had only been six hours. Janail had at least another sixty to endure.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

One of the tests of the civilization of people

is the treatment of its criminals.

—Rutherford B. Hayes

TCS Headquarters, Tondo, Manila, Republic of the Philippines

Diwata was already mentally selecting the next candidate for hanging, later in the day, when she got the call. “I have the money,” said the voice she associated with Terry.

“I’ll call you back in two hours,” she answered, then hung up. Picking up her own phone, she called Lucas, telling him to report to her. He arrived at her office door in a matter of minutes.

“The Kanos are going to pay,” she said. “Set it up.”

“You going to call them for their initial instructions?” Lucas asked.

“Yes,” Diwata said. “I’ll tell them one car and one car only, no more than two men, and demand the make, model, color, and license plate. No weapons. I’ll also send them first to the Rizal monument, at the Luneta; make sure you outpost it to see if they’re trying to cheat. If they’re clean when they get to Rizal, you contact them directly afterwards for further instructions.”

Lucas nodded. It was a good choice for the purpose, open enough to see and crowded enough that his scout wouldn’t be noticed. “How long do you want me to run them ragged?” he asked.

“Until after dark. We’ve done too many exchanges in the daytime. Time to vary things a bit, I think.”

“You think maybe they involved the police?” Lucas asked.

“Nah! Least of our worries.”

“You sure you want to give the three back?”

“Sure,” Diwata replied. “It’s just sound business practice to keep our word. We start acting like the Moros and people will stop paying and take their chances with something else.”

“Okay,” Lucas agreed. “I need a couple of hours to get security out.”

Safe House Alpha, Hagonoy, Bulacan, Luzon,

Republic of the Philippines

Terry had never really expected to lay eyes on the place again. But it was there. It
was
safe. And it still had a couple of vehicles, now reinforced by several more, that Lox hadn’t felt obliged to burn. The whole area still stank of smoke and gasoline where Lox had torched two of the vehicles and three of the outbuildings.

Welch and Graft stood side by side. Around them, to their front, were another sixteen men of Alpha Company, in four teams of four. All wore mufti, though there was, in the semicircle of vehicles behind the teams, enough equipment for a small army.

Welch and Graft weren’t obviously armed, though each had a pistol under his light suit jacket. Graft’s weapon was in a shoulder holster. Welch had his in a high waist holster, from which he’d been practicing an initially awkward quick draw for quite some time.

The others sported a mix of weapons, though each team had one .510 caliber Whisper rifle, a .338 Lapua, a light machine gun—because, as Graft had said, “Ya never know, boss, when you might need one”—and a suppressed submachine gun. The light machine guns, Whispers, and Lapuas were equipped with thermal scopes, while the team leaders, carrying the submachine guns, wore goggles. Under their mufti, Welch and Graft wore body armor of the highest quality. The others did not, given that their mission would require a certain lightness on their feet.

Each vehicle also contained a laptop with an integral GPS, wireless and with a brand new sim card. Welch and Graft were wired for sound, with a long range radio, earpiece, and button mike. The others were similarly equipped, except that their microphones were of the boom variety.

Welch’s and Graft’s car had a leather satchel on the floor of the passenger seat. The satchel had been stuffed nearly to bursting with cash. What they hadn’t been able to do with their own bank draft had become easy, though too late for Zimmerman, once the Ayala payment was released from escrow. The back also contained weapons and ammunition for Graft and Welch, plus enough to rearm Benson, Perez, and Washington, should that prove necessary.

The phone rang, the panel showing Benson’s number as the caller. Welch held up a single fist for absolute silence, then answered it. “This is Terry.”

Diwata relayed her instructions.

Terry answered with, “Late model Suzuki Jimny, silver. License plate is TIM three nine eight.”

She then asked, “Do you have any questions?”

“No, none,” Terry replied.

“Good.” The cell went dead.

“Lox, can you hear me?” Welch asked.

“Got you, Terry,” answered Lox, sitting in the RPV’s control station with his injured leg propped up on a cabinet. Aida was with him.

“My destination is Rizal Monument.”

“That’s on the coast, just southwest of Central Old Manila,” Aida said. “You’ll be passing within a couple of miles of where your men are likely being held.”

“Will they make the exchange there?” Welch asked.

“Not a chance,” Aida said.

“Okay. Lox, take control of the teams and get them somewhere not too far, and not too obvious.”

“I’m sending them roughly to the four curves of Santa Ana Racetrack,” Lox sent. “Gentlemen, if you’ll check your laptops you will see your four destinations.”

“Good luck, everybody. Remember, weapons free is if I throw them the bag and our people are known present, or when I draw. If I pass it to them or place it on the ground? Hold your fire.

“Let’s go.”

Rizal Monument, Manila, Republic of the Philippines

One hour and four minutes later, Graft turned the silver Suzuki onto Roxas Boulevard, passing the obvious obelisk of the Rizal Monument on his left. Past the obelisk, he turned left on Kalaw Street, and then left again to head northwest on Roxas. When the phone didn’t immediately ring, Welch directed him to circle the park. The Suzuki went right on Burgos, right again on Orosa, then took another right back onto Kalaw. Graft was just about to head northwest on Roxas again when the phone rang.

“My name is not important,” said a male voice. “Nagpayong Ferry Station. You have half an hour.”

MV
Richard Bland,
Twenty-two miles Southwest of Corregidor, Manila Bay

The cranes, all three of them, were whining as Pearson reconfigured the containers aboard his ship for maximum feasible innocence of appearance. The CH-750’s were folded up, containerized, and struck below. The remaining MI-28, likewise, was partially disassembled and containerized. All the grunts were down below anyplace a customs official might look, except for a half dozen in merchant sailor dress.

He’d been careful, though, to leave the control station for the RPV up on the partial top level of shipping containers.

“Pity we can’t track the cell phones from here with the RPV,” said the pilot.

Lox responded, “Maybe No-Such-Agency can do that shit. Maybe. But it’s out of our league.”

“Yeah,” the pilot agreed. “Still a pity.”

Lox looked over at Aida, intently following the map displayed on the monitor. “Why the ferry, Aida?”

She shook her head. “Doubt it has anything to do with the ferry. It has to do with the lake?”

“Huh?”

Aida traced with her finger just above the screen. “Only two ways around it from there, south and east. South there are two roads for part of the way, but only one continues on past Los Baños. They’ll watch that one. The other’s a single road all the way. They’ll be watching that, too, in case a convoy follows, even at a distance.”

“Kinda clever,” Lox said.

“They didn’t get where they are by being stupid.”

“It’s maybe even more clever than they know.” Lox called Welch. “Boss, we have a problem. Rather, we’ve got two of them.” After explaining what Aida had seen, Lox added, “But they could try to make the trade on either the south of the lake, or the east of it. We need to split the teams up to cover both.”

“That’s pushing our margin of safety down pretty low,” Welch sent back.

“No shit, but I don’t see a lot of choice.”

“Any sign they’ve moved our people from their headquarters?” Terry asked.

The pilot shook his head. “I’ve been watching closely. Nothing like that on screen.”

“No, boss,” Lox replied.

“Yeah . . . crap. Okay, split them up, two each way.”

Los Baños, Laguna, Republic of the Philippines

“Go to the mahogany farm a mile west of Saint Anne College, Lucena,” said the man at the other end of the phone.

Terry was about to answer, “Okay,” when Aida piped in, in his earpiece, “You’re too calm. That’s suspicious. Act frustrated.”

Terry was about to answer her with a “Roger” when he remembered just who was still listening on the other end of the cell phone. He extemporized, “Will you fucking people make up your minds?”

“You ever want to see your people alive again, Kano,” said the voice, “you shut the fuck up and do what you’re told. The mahogany farm, one hour.”

MV
Richard Bland,
Twenty-two miles Southwest

of Corregidor, Manila Bay

“Are they going to make the switch at the mahogany farm?” Lox asked Aida.

“No way,” she said. “It’s much too soon.”

“Besides,” said the pilot, “they can’t make the switch until they take our people from their headquarters. As near as I can tell, they haven’t.”

“Aida,” Lox asked, “are you sure, absolutely sure, they’ll have been keeping our people at their headquarters in Tondo?”

“Absolutely?” She shook her head. “No. But everyone they’ve ever kidnapped before—that would talk to us, I mean; not all of them would—had the same story, a place—sometimes in the basement, sometimes on a different floor—with five or six mesh cages, and guards, that they were never moved from except to go to the bathroom and then right before the exchange. Every one of those that we’ve been able to track the route of, before they were exchanged, that route led back to Tondo, to their building.

“They’re not political, except in the sense that they’ve got de facto political control of Tondo. They’re not on the run. They don’t have people ready to betray them at a moment’s notice and, in Tondo, for sure, they don’t have our police looking for them or their victims.

“They’re their own country, at war with everyone else. That basement’s just a POW camp. And you don’t move POW’s just for the hell of it.”

MV
Richard Bland,
Five miles West of Tondo, Manila Bay

“I think I’ve got something,” said the pilot.

The only way to tell it was night outside was by the green screen on the pilot’s control board. Once the sun had set he’d switched out from his day camera to the nighttime version. In all that time, none of the three had moved from the container. Welch and Graft were now on the seventh leg of their ride to nowhere.

Lox and Aida rushed to the screen. A van was parked at one corner of the building, TCS headquarters, that took up an entire block of the subdivision. It was impossible to tell the color, given that the camera turned everything light colored a sort of pale green. White was Lox’s guess.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen something park that close to their headquarters all day,” the pilot said. “Nobody else had even tried.”

“They’ve got their enemies,” Aida said. “So they’re touchy about car bombs.”

“Where did the van come from?” Lox asked.

“No clue. One minute it wasn’t there and the next it was. And . . . oh, oh.”

Lox looked intently at the screen. A half a dozen of the locals, armed, were helping then prodding three much taller men into the back of a van. It was impossible to make out any detail, of course; the RPV was patrolling at a sufficient height to make hearing it impossible and seeing it almost so. Still . . .

“They’re walking like their hands are bound. And I’m pretty sure the short one is Benson. Also . . . two light skinned, one dark. That’s them.”

He called Terry. “Boss, they’re moving our people. Light van, possibly white. We’re going to follow with the RPV.”

“Roger.”

When they came aboard, having climbed a ladder from a harbor patrol boat that had taken station alongside, Pearson noticed that both the pilot and the customs officials were heavily tattooed. It wasn’t a surprise; Aida had briefed him already.

“Captain,” she’d said, “how do you suppose TCS grew as much as it did and is as well armed as it is? They
took
control of that part of the port long ago.”

The pilot did his job competently enough, guiding the ship to a smooth docking at the wharf next to Barangay One Twenty-nine. The customs men turned their tattooed faces to the totally fraudulent ship’s manifests presented by the captain. They’d figure their cut as the containers were unloaded. For now, they just needed to get a handle on what was there to take their cut from.

And what’s bizarre
, thought Pearson, as the pilot and customs agents left the bridge,
is that, while they’re at some level corrupt, and members of a criminal gang, they were more polite and honest than half the customs agents in half the ports in the world.
He mentally sighed.
I am reminded of the Roman merchant who joined the gang of Attila the Hun.