by David Poyer
“Well, we’re not. So I need you to help me figure how we’re getting him out of here. Is the boat ready to go?”
Teddy squatted, flipping up a bit of soil with the tip of his Glock, over and over. He was wondering if he should tell Lenson about the Americans in the hut. The man and the woman. He still hadn’t seen them, but when he’d crept in to check it out, after Wenck had told him about his discovery, he’d heard the distant murmur of their talk. Midwest, by the flat vowels.
“Well?”
“It’s running, sir. Had to get the heads off and clean some crap out of the cooling system, looks like they ran it through a bed of kelp. But she’s ready to go now.” Fuck it, if Lenson knew, he’d figure he had to do something about it. Then they’d really be up shit creek.
“Fuel?”
“Half a tank, and the jerry cans that came in on the truck. I did a fuel-consumption run, put the clock on her. We’re good for about four hundred miles.”
Dan went over what they had and where it was. The extra fuel was hidden among the rocks, down by where the boat lay. The food still hadn’t arrived, though, and the water tank was only half full.
“Okay, listen up. I want Donnie down there, getting all those gas cans aboard. Quietly. I want anything we can find filled with water. And food, anything we can lay our hands on without attracting attention.”
“We’re not gonna be able to snatch him, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Oberg said. “We might have been able to when they brought him out of the woods. Now they’re loaded for bear. We try to shoot our way out, we’re gonna get hit, bad.”
Sumo said, “You give the order, we’ll do it. But Obie’s right, we’ll just all go down.”
Monty had been listening, wondering if they were missing a simple answer. “Look, these guys are supposed to be bandits, right?”
“Someplace between bandits and rebels,” Dan said. “Why?”
“Well, what are bandits in business for? The money. Can’t we buy Rit off? At this trial. Can’t you pay like, blood money?”
“Good thought,” Dan said. He sucked air through his teeth. “I’ll try Abu. This Ibrahim guy, he doesn’t sound buyable.”
“Yeah, he comes across as a true believer,” Oberg said.
Dan started to get up, but they were still waiting. He lowered himself again. “What?”
“In case none of that works out, we need an execute signal,” Kaulukukui muttered.
“Teddy? Help me out here.”
Oberg scraped the blade off on his boot. “Not much to say, sir. Group on you, blast our way to him, take out as many of them as we can. Grenade the huts. Then head for the boat and rear-guard the hell out of it on our way down the trail. If we’re still walking.”
Abu was calling him. Dan dusted off his trou and got up. He scratched in his beard. “Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. Tell Wenck to get the engines turning over as soon as he hears firing. If we can make it down there, we want to be out past the reef before they can get their machine guns down to the beach.”
“The execute order, sir?” the Hawaiian said again.
“Ambush,” Dan said.
“ ‘Ambush,’ sir?”
“Yeah. If they understand English, it might confuse them for a second.”
“Not bad.” Oberg got up, too. He squinted.
“Let’s go to trial,” Dan said.
They headed back toward the fire.
Two hours later they were still sitting around it. Dan was in the guayabera, the most dignified shirt he’d brought, though it was filthy. Under it he was coated with sweat, and his legs were cramping.
They sat in a square. On one side sat Carpenter and the woman. She still hadn’t said a word, and Dan hadn’t caught her name clearly enough to be sure he knew it. Someone had thrown the blanket over her shoulders, and she sat without moving or looking up, hands in her lap. Carpenter fidgeted, pale under his stubble, sucking on a beer bottle of water the imam had ordered brought to him. Behind the defendants stood armed men. Dan, Sosukan, and Oberg sat on the second side. Across from him Ibrahim sat cross-legged, cool in a white robe that looked like something you’d get baptized in at a Pentecostal church. The imam had a book open in front of him. He kept quoting from it to the five men who finished the square, stone-faced rebels, apparently the oldest in the camp, most, though not all, with gray in their beards. These were the judges, the imam had explained in the incongruous Caledonian burr that made him sound like Scotty in Star Trek. The Abu Sayyaf could not comply with all the requirements of shariya law. After all, they were warriors in the field. But they’d do the best they could to render Islamic justice.
For two hours straight Dan had labored to penetrate what was going on. The language arrangements didn’t help. Ibrahim would read something in Arabic. Then he’d translate it into Tausug for the “judges.” Beside Oberg, Sosukan would translate it and the ensuing discussion into Tagalog, which Oberg turned into English. Dan suspected serious losses in meaning at each interface, but it was the best he could do; Ibrahim refused to translate what he was reading directly into an “infidel” language. Such as English, apparently.
So far, they’d established that four “upstanding” men had witnessed the act, that Carpenter was not a Moslem, that he’d known his deed was unlawful, and that he’d admitted his crime aloud four times before being confronted with the witnesses.
Dan rotated his head, stretching the kinks out of his neck. He was getting the drift of the process. It wasn’t like a common-law trial. Actually, it was more like a court-martial, with its panel of judges instead of a jury, its limited representation, and the way evidence and admissions, matched scrupulously against a code that set down in black and white exactly what had to be proven to constitute an offense, were weighed against testimony about the character of the accused. He figured this was nothing like a real shariya court would be, say in Saudi, where it was the law of the land, but he could see where, if you kept to the letter of Islamic law, an accused might get something resembling a fair hearing.
The penalties were another question. He shifted on his blanket and tried to catch Ibrahim’s eye.
“Commander Lenson?”
“I’d like a recess, please.”
The older judges and spectators lumbered up gratefully and headed for the dark, fumbling with their trousers. Dan followed. Specifically, he followed Abu. The chief wasn’t one of the judges, but he was definitely a player. He lined up next to the guy as urine rattled against leaves. Dan edged in; the guy sidestepped away.
“Uh, Abu? A word?”
“Oh. It is you. Yes, Commander.”
“How do you think it’s going?”
“We will have justice.”
“Uh, right. You know, where we come from, we don’t punish people for adultery.”
“Really? Fucking other man’s wife, is not crime in America?”
“I guess it’s still on the books, but we quit enforcing it quite a while ago.”
“Then you must have much adultery,” the Sayyaf murmured. “How else will women have honor? Tempting is everywhere. Well, your road is your road. But we have Qu’uran.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I was hoping you could see your way to letting me make restitution. For Amin’s uh, dishonor.”
“Restitution?” Abu murmured, pointing his stream this way and that. “You mean, pay?”
“Right.” Dan cleared his throat. “How much do you think would be appropriate?”
The bandit took his time. He finished, shook, tucked away. Finally he sighed. “For five thousand dollars, I would speak to one of the judges.”
“One of them? There are five judges.”
“He maybe speak to the others.”
Dan cleared his throat again. This didn’t sound like a winning hand. On the other hand, he wasn’t going to walk out of here missing one of his guys to some kangaroo court. Simple bandits? Right. They’d gotten guns out of Oberg. Now they were screwing money out of him. “All right. Five thousand. On
e of my men will give it to Amin.”
“Not to Amin. He is not inclined to mercy. Give to me. I will give to him later. Afterward. As his friend.”
Some friend, Dan thought. But what the insulted husband finally took in, or didn’t, he could care less about. As long as it got them out of there with an unbeheaded Carpenter. “I’ll get it to you right away.”
The rebel chief sighed again, turned on his heel, and walked away, fingers digging deep into the crack of his butt.
Back to the fire, and the “trial.” Dan checked his watch. Four A.M. Carpenter jittered a boot, looking like he was about to tear out his hair and run shrieking across the embers. The woman sat in the same motionless suspension. Dan wondered if she was even listening, if she’d just given up when rough hands had grabbed her, back in the glade.
Oberg had been whispering with Sosukan while he’d been pissing and bribing. As Dan settled again he leaned and murmured, “Might be a loophole.”
“Yeah?”
“The kid here says he heard, that if a guy’s on the road, on travel we’d say, so he doesn’t have access to his regular wife, he’s like exempt from the code. From back when they did camel caravans for a year, or whatever.”
“That’s in the book?”
“He doesn’t know if it’s in the one Ibrahim’s using. He doesn’t think Ibrahim’s reading all the passages.”
“Great. But yeah, if it says that, we could drive a truck through that.” He took a deep breath. “I put the fix in with Abu, too. He says he can get to one of the judges.”
“Can only help. Good job, sir.”
“This sucks.”
“Copy that, sir. Thought about snatching Abu?”
“Snatching him?”
“Or Ibrahim. Or both. Take them hostage. They let Carpenter go, or we off ’em.”
“I don’t think so. Once these people start shooting, we’re all going to be a lot worse off. Let’s stick to the plan. Until there’s no other way.”
Oberg nodded and settled back into his attentive posture. Ibrahim cleared his throat, spat, and began reading in a singsong drone, rocking forward and back. The translation limped and hobbled: Tausug, Tagalog, English. A scraping came from over by one of the huts. Looking over, Dan saw two kids digging a hole. As he watched more came up the path, arms loaded, and dumped rocks into a growing pile.
“What’s he saying?”
“The evildoers are invited to repent.”
“Will that mitigate the punishment?”
“Wait a minute . . . uh . . . it would have, if they’d done it before the evidence was presented. Now it’s too late.”
He swore. How could he defend his guy, if he didn’t know the rules? But Ibrahim did, and he was using that knowledge to twist them deeper into the barbed wire. If he wasn’t actually making them up himself, as he went along. Their gazes met across the fire. The guy gave him a sly smile. Message: fuck you, infidel. “Uh, I have an objection,” Dan called. “Point of order.”
This went up the translation chain. Ibrahim smiled. “The Commander will speak in defense of his man. Commander Lenson.”
Dan rose. He noticed Abu just behind the judges. The chieftain gave him a microscopic nod. Then put his hand lightly on the shoulder of the judge with the longest beard. The one who’d sat with a stone face through everything. Dan bowed to them, all five. They bowed back as they sat. All but the eldest, who stared with what looked like outrage glittering in his gaze.
Fortunately he’d spent enough time in the Middle East to make a stab at this. “Honored judges,” he began. “We came to you as guests. Has not the Prophet, blessed be his name, instructed all true believers to be hospitable to the guest?”
He waited for the translation. It wasn’t the United Nations, and the translations weren’t simultaneous. He hoped they got the gist of what he was trying to put across. “I deeply apologize for the wrong actions of my soldier. Mistakes happen. I personally do not believe my . . . subordinate fully understood how wrong his act was.”
He tried not to fidget or look impatient while this was turned into language after language. The judges stared, the flames leaping in their pupils.
“You must also take into account how far from home we are, and how long we have been away. Is there not an exemption, in the law, for men separated by duty from their wives? Men are men, and Tausug women are beautiful. Surely they would tempt even angels, much less simple sailors.”
He searched his mind. Moslems honored Jesus as one of the prophets, didn’t they? It was worth a try. “Jesus of Nazareth, uh, blessed be his name, once asked a group of men, who were ready to stone a sinning woman: Who among you is truly righ teous? Let him cast the first stone. And no one stepped forward. They turned away, one by one, and left.”
None of these guys looked like he planned to slink away. They looked like a stoning jury. Dan rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. Carpenter was yearning up at him with desperate hope. Yeah, you sweat, too, you cunt-happy son of a bitch. He groped, unwilling to sit down. He’d spoken at many masts for many of his men, but never for their lives. So do it, Lenson.
“And, finally . . . uh . . . finally, I ask your mercy on both this man and this woman, and offer to pay any fine the judges may think right. Uh, in Allah’s name, as your guest and friend, I ask this. Thank you.”
He sat down disappointed, as if he’d had his chance and blown it. But Oberg leaned and whispered, “That was pitched just right, Commander. You shoulda been a JAG.”
“Yeah, well. At least I got the fix in.” He had a sudden flash of fear: Had Henrickson actually made the payoff? He twisted where he sat as the imam droned on, rocking over his book, and searched the flickering dark for the analyst. Who signaled back from the direction of the huts. Dan frowned; surreptitiously scratched his palm. Henrickson looked both ways, then laid one hand firmly in the other. Dan breathed again. He turned back and tried to look as though he was concentrating on the imam’s monotone.
Which finally came to an end and was succeeded by silence. Then, after a stir among the judges, they clambered to their feet, one after the other, and moved off away from the fire. Where they went into a huddle, heads together.
Dan took advantage of the break to massage a cramp out of his calf and get a dipperful of water from the ready bucket. He checked his watch, then the sky. Gray light percolated behind the black cutouts of the palms. He hitched up his pants and ducked into his hut. His AK was under his blanket. He loaded it, slung it as unostentatiously as he could, and went back out and settled into his place again, laying it carefully beside him. Oberg had his handy, too. They exchanged glances. Carpenter called something to them but the guy behind him sank the butt of his rifle in his spine, and he gasped and sank back. Dan took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling in his knees. In five minutes, he might be dead. They all might be.
The flames were translucent pale in the growing dawn-light. The woman still hadn’t moved. No one had spoken for her at all, nor had she shown any reaction to the testimony. He couldn’t decide if it was shock or resignation, or maybe the final transcendent peace a mouse was supposed to feel, in the jaws of the cat.
Ibrahim droned in his pedantic monotone. The oldest judge creaked to his feet again. The graybeard coughed into his fist, obviously relishing being the center of attention. Then made a wide gesture that ended at the accused couple, and spouted a couple of sentences.
Beside him Oberg whispered, “Well, that I understood.”
“What’d he say?” Dan tensed.
“The verdict: guilty.”
“Fuck.”
“The punishment: Each is to be placed in a hole and covered with soil. He, up to his waist. She, to a line above her breasts.”
“Then?”
Oberg muttered, “Then, they’re to be stoned to death.” His hand fell casually to the blanket.
There didn’t seem to be an appeal process; the rebels were tugging Carpenter to his feet. They pulled him toward where the kid
s were digging, shouting at them. They mock-screamed and ran. The rest of the spectators began getting up, feeling around for their weapons.
Dan’s fingers found his own. He pushed the safety off.
He had his mouth open to shout when a far-off bonk echoed through the jungle. Then another.
The rebels froze. Their heads cocked. Their mouths came open.
The first mortar round exploded on the far side of the village. Then, in a ripple of flashes, a cascading roar, dirt and logs leapt up into huge black airborne mounds. They began walking inland, toward where judges, accusers, spectators broke, scattered, screaming, arms clasped over their heads.
Dan’s reflexes had driven him to the ground at the first explosion. He hugged it, clawing down into it, as the mortars walked over them. The sky went dark. Trees, beams, cook-pots, smoking tree stumps hurtled into the air. Shock waves slammed his face into the soil, then whammed his chest into the ground like a giant staple gun.
Abruptly the barrage ceased. He started to his feet, then changed his mind and scrambled baboonlike through smoke and pattering dirt to the hole the kids had dug. He knew what came next. Kaulukukui hurtled in on top of him, driving the breath out of his lungs again.
A rising roar began off in the hills. It grew till it was on them, over them.
A black shape darted out of the sky, twin engines howling. Black streamlines tumbled from it. Where they hit, the jungle erupted into long smears of orange flame. A second jet. A third. Thought oozed through frozen terror. A-10s. Warthogs. They were laying a careful pattern of seething flame, boxing in the low valley leading to the sea.
A crackle broke out uphill, on the far side of the burning jungle. Around them the rebels jumped to their feet. Fumbling with their new weapons, they began firing wildly into the smoke. Dan squinted, searching for what they were firing at.
Something grabbed his arm. He flinched away, then caught Oberg’s shout through the ring-tones of the explosions. “Philippine Army. They’re after the hostages.”
“Hostages? What hostages?” One of the moments-ago judges stumbled past him, trying to jam a Kalashnikov magazine into a rusty Garand. Dan glimpsed Carpenter leading the woman, hand in hand, toward the smoke cloud. “Carpenter! Carpenter! Get your ass back here!”
