Sudden Threat (6 page)

Takishi was a busy man. That morning he had flown nearly nineteen hundred kilometers from Yonaguni to Davao City, Mindanao, to meet quickly with the Abu Sayyaf leader there.

He stooped and stepped down the ladder of the Shin Meiwa. The new version of an endangered species of an airplane, with its upgraded Japanese computer avionics and GPS technology, made the vessel perfect for Takishi’s purposes.

As he stood on the steaming runway, the bright sunlight and intense Mindanao heat rapped him in the face. He was tired from the previous night’s seafaring activities, and the humidity further sucked his strength. Yet, he was more at home there than bouncing around the cockpit of Kinoga’s attack boat. Dismissing the thoughts of killing the admiral and his men, Takishi was focused on his next task.
So much to do.

Meeting Takishi on the tarmac was Commander Douglas Talbosa, a snake-eyed man who led the entire Abu Sayyaf movement in the Philippines, having engineered several attacks and kidnappings over the past decade. The more spectacular, the better, because the money would pour into the Abu Sayyaf coffers once they were able to post onto the Internet the images of death and destruction. Talbosa was unusually tall for a Filipino, nearly six feet, and wore an Australian bush hat with one side flipped up. Takishi looked at him and thought the man at least had some style.

That an emerging Muslim extremist terror network existed in that remote southern isle of the Philippine archipelago was no surprise to Takishi. He knew that Al Qaeda was seeking areas that lacked governance, and the hundreds of islands that constituted the Republic of the Philippines were impossible to govern effectively. The remote islands presented the perfect sanctuary ingredients: desperate, uneducated peasants, isolated terrain, and clandestine routes of ingress and egress.

Those ingredients were perfect for Takishi’s plan as well.

His sunglasses shielded his eyes from the bright sun and the Filipino commander. The prop wash from the four propellers of the Shin Meiwa blew hot air against his back as he bowed. Fortunately, Takishi had worn his lightweight khakis for his final meeting with the Al Qaeda knockoff group.

Talbosa returned the bow and said in broken English, “Good news. But first, Takishi, I should show you our plans for the entire operation again.”

“I only have a few minutes, Talbosa, but I wanted to make sure we had no remaining problems.”

“Yes, yes, no problem,” Talbosa said quickly with a heavy accent. “All operations are no problem. All good. Good news, too.”

“What news?”

“We have destroyed two ranger C-130 airplanes. My deputy, Pascual, is securing them now.”

Takishi reflected a moment, glad his eyes were hidden by sunglasses.
The Rolling Stones work quickly
, he mused.

“Yes, that is good news. Do you have all of the information and ammunition you require?”

“We have most of what we need. Luzon will attack the Subic ammo point. No problem. They get the ammo from Subic for us and to keep the Americans from having it. No problem.”

“Okay, you run your operation however you see fit. I’m here to make sure you have what you need. And congratulations on the victory.”

“No problem. And Takishi, I have been inspecting your operation as well. It appears you have no problems also?”

Takishi lowered his sunglasses and stared at Talbosa, whose face was rigid with sincerity.

“No problems.” Takishi smiled.

He offered his hand to the Filipino as they approached his aircraft.

“Yes, it is all good. And remember, Talbosa …”

“Yes?”

“When you are done, you will be justly rewarded. Perhaps president?”

“We want Muslim nation; that is all.” Talbosa was nonplussed. A warrior and devout Muslim, he was akin to the Taliban, who intersected with the poppy growers to fuel their insurgency.
By whatever means possible.

“One final thing,” Takishi said.

“Yes? But hurry, I must meet with Pascual.”

“There is an American somewhere on this island. It would be good to catch him and … do as you please with him.” Takishi looked down the long runway, away from Talbosa, wondering if they caught the significance of what he was saying. “Matt Garrett. He’s CIA.”

“I understand, Takishi,” Talbosa said. “We will capture this man and make an example out of him.”

“But no other Americans, clear?”

“No problems,” Talbosa smiled.

CHAPTER 7

Takishi bid Talbosa farewell and boarded his plane. He fit a set of headphones over his ears as he sat in a strapped jump seat between the pilot and copilot, and told them to head to Cateel Bay.

The Shin Meiwa pulled away from the runway with a short roll, its four powerful Rolls-Royce engines easily lifting the aircraft off the concrete instead of having to fight the suction created during a waterborne take-off.

Ascending above Davao City, Takishi looked down upon the impoverished metropolis. There were a few modern buildings in the downtown area, like a pearl in a rotten oyster, but they quickly gave way to adobe structures, then to the thatch huts that dominated the outskirts of the city. Banana plantations and rice paddies formed odd geometric shapes beneath them, in stark contrast to the thick triple-canopy jungle of the highlands.

His pilot cut the trim of the tail rudder, and the plane leveled into a smooth glide. Cateel Bay was only forty-five minutes away, just northeast of Davao City on the eastern coast of Mindanao.

They flew above the tropical rain forest that dominated the mountains, which cut a jagged north-to-south path over the eastern portion of the island. A series of small agricultural and fishing villages dotted the east coast. Takishi could see groupings of thatch huts every twelve kilometers or so. Parked on the sandy shore were small wooden boats that the fishermen used for short ventures beyond the coral reef to harvest the rich waters of the Philippine Sea.

He tapped the pilot on the shoulder when he saw the horseshoe of Cateel Bay. The pilot knew the route and nodded at Takishi. They began their descent, circling down from above. The tropical blue hue of the water became more evident as they floated downward. The pilot banked the Shin Meiwa, then leveled its wings parallel to the water. With its protective coral reef nearly a kilometer offshore, Cateel Bay was the perfect area in which to land an air/seaplane. There were no waves, and the beach was sandy, allowing the craft easy ingress and egress.

The plane skidded as it always did, spraying fine mist in either direction. Another skid, and the water’s friction against the pontoons grabbed the craft, causing its passengers to lurch slightly forward for a typical landing. The pilot steered the plane to the beach, where it found purchase with a gentle nudge into the sand.

Takishi turned and spoke in his harsh Japanese tongue to his eighteen passengers, telling them to stand and exit the airplane.

They came crawling from the back of the plane toward the side door in single file. Movement was difficult, as each man had his hands and feet chained together. Like a clumsy centipede, they clanked together down the ladder of the airplane, stepping into the shallow water.

To a man, they shut their narrow eyes, balking at the brightness of the noonday sun. They were relieved, however, to be out of the airplane, as the temperature had reached an unbearable 120 degrees inside the steel frame of the craft while they were waiting for Takishi in Davao City. Outside, it was only 105 degrees. Much better.

Takishi stood on the beach, envisioning himself as a futuristic MacArthur, with his gold-rimmed sunglasses and wicked smile. He pulled a revolver from his trousers and checked its payload with a quick flip of his wrist. The prisoners looked up, squinting in the bright sun, at the familiar sound of unlatching metal. With his thumb, Takishi popped the cylinder back into the New Nambu revolver. Takishi liked it because it made him feel like a cowboy. It was uniquely different from the military automatic pistols, and the curved, custom-made pearl-handled grip fit his hand rather well.

He smiled at the gang of prisoners, all Chinese, Koreans, or Indonesians who had infiltrated his homeland, byproducts of the fractional criminal element in Japan. While the black market was a nuisance to the country, these illegal immigrants were perfect fodder for his purposes.

He marched them off the beach, past the thatch huts of the fishing village, and onto a trail that led almost two kilometers into the jungle.
Yes, we shall return
, he thought to himself, smiling. Takishi relished this post-9-11 window of opportunity. The Americans’ fledgling effort in Afghanistan and their obvious intentions toward Iraq opened the door for geopolitical chess moves that would overwhelm and stymie the Americans. He was part strategic military planner and part pragmatic economist: a modern-day Machiavelli.

As they walked, Filipino peasants waved at Takishi. He always brought them packages of food from his country. This time was no different as he had the pilot drop three boxes next to an elderly woman. The peasants were unaware that the food was nothing more than military combat rations. It was nutritional and filled their children’s stomachs.

The Filipinos stood from cleaning fish along a straw mat and watched the entourage. Takishi looked at the children in bare feet, their legs dirty and riddled with fly bites. He smiled and waved, though it was an insincere gesture. He had no sympathy for them.

They soon entered the dense jungle and followed a worn path up the spine of a ridge to the south of a river that would lead them to a brown and green structure. There was a road that came from the north, but the shorter distance to the factory was directly through the jungle.

Once there, Takishi would introduce his friends to Mr. Abe, the manager of plant number three, who could surely use the labor. The other three Rolling Stones knew about plant number one, which manufactured small arms for the Abu Sayyaf insurgency.

But they had no clue about the other three plants, which built weaponry of a different type.

CHAPTER 8

Philippine Abu Sayyaf Commander Douglas Talbosa departed the airfield and rode in an old U.S. Army jeep toward the burning hulk of an airplane that had crashed about thirty kilometers north of Davao City in the east-central highland region of Mindanao.

He had three battalions of infantry soldiers, each consisting of roughly three hundred men. There were three companies per battalion. The unit had no organic support structure. Talbosa had done his best to create a new, loosely structured unit to supply ammunition, food, and other critical supplies to his troops deployed in the field. As a result of the Japanese monetary assistance, the Muslim army had been able to buy new supplies, equipment, and, most importantly, food. Talbosa had a two-man staff that coordinated all logistical efforts. Now with the apparent shooting down of two Philippine C-130s, he hoped they would be able to take some pictures and get more funding by posting them on the Internet. Al Qaeda was always looking to reinforce successful commanders by rewarding them with money that would propel further attacks against westernized countries.

Eyewitness accounts said one aircraft blew up in the sky, and the other discharged about thirty paratroopers before exploding into the side of a mountain. When he got a daylight report, then he might dispatch one of his few precious helicopters to survey the wreckage. But for the moment, he wanted his men to quickly inspect the smoldering aircraft hulks, if they could, and bring back alive any soldiers who made it to ground safely. Just days before their final offensive into Manila, it was critical that he get as much intelligence as possible.

The sun had risen, peeking above the jungle highlands to the east. An orange-gray shade tumbled over the eastern mountain range, the sun not yet high enough to illuminate the leeward slopes. The mountain’s elongated shadow still obscured the aircraft wreckage.

Talbosa did not know exactly what he was looking for, but his men rode forward in old farm trucks and jeepneys, fancy Filipino jeeps ornately decorated with several hood ornaments and colorful velvet material around the window edges. They had painted the vehicles an olive color, but some of the troops kept the red, orange, and maroon velvet curtains hanging inside.

Two of Talbosa’s battalions moved quickly to link up with the battalion that had downed the aircraft an hour earlier. Speeding along the only road in the Central Valley, they moved past what was the initial drop zone for the Ranger unit and stopped their vehicles in a rather unprofessional fashion all around the one aircraft. Black smoke billowed from the midsection, which was split in two. The wreckage gained definition as the sun burned away the dawn mist and darkness. The men who had shot down the aircraft were jubilant, and wasted no time in greeting their commander.

“Rangers?” Talbosa asked Pascual, his second-in-command, who had been in charge of the air-defense efforts.

“That’s right,” Pascual said, relishing his kills. “We got both planes. Only about twenty or so enemy jumped from the first airplane.”

“Congratulations, men,” he said to the growing throng gawking at the smoking airplane and the charred bodies strewn about the wreckage. In no time, the men were pilfering the equipment and picking through the uniforms of the dead soldiers.

“Have one battalion stay here, another to move back to their air-defense positions, and the last one to move into the jungle to the east with me. I want them here in half an hour,” Talbosa ordered. Pascual saluted and moved out, eager to please his commander once again.

Talbosa was not surprised when his men, digging around the wreckage, found the bodies of seventy Filipino Rangers. A Mindanao native, Talbosa was in his middle forties, and the drop zone was less than eight kilometers from his boyhood home. He grew up with the Abu Sayyaf and its governing ideology, not as right wing as the Taliban in Afghanistan, but not as liberal as the European Muslims of Bosnia and Kosovo. Their ideology was a more pragmatic one, based loosely around Islamic faith. Talbosa knew that not even Al Qaeda was altogether Koran-based. In the final analysis, he was convinced that the only way for his country to achieve any semblance of international respect was by aligning with the only growing insurgent movement in the world, Islamic extremism. Perhaps that would bring social and economic equality to his countrymen. Nothing else had.