Strike Force Bravo

by Mack Maloney

  Uni took the matchbook. A silence passed between them. Ramosa sipped his mineral water.

  “I understand you are carrying a key piece of information regarding the implementation of this attack,” Ramosa finally said to him. “Something referred to as the sharfa. This must be quite a burden for you, holding the key to putting the plan in motion. If so, I am here to tell you, should you ever want to share that information, please be my guest.” He smiled, but this time not so flashy. “I mean, if recent history is our guide, should anything happen to you, my friend…well then, all would be lost, wouldn’t it?”

  But Uni wasn’t really listening. He’d finished his salad and was now using one of the five spoons next to his plate to scoop up the remains of the dressing. This done, he began to lick the plate clean, as he usually did at mealtime. Only the appearance of a bowl of sherbet stopped him. Ramosa took a call on his cell phone, and this signaled the end of their meeting.

  They shook hands and Uni left. He was intercepted again by the girl in her tight club uniform. This time she took his hand tightly in hers and walked him to the front door. As she bid him good-bye, she pressed a card into his hand. It was her private phone number.

  Uni picked his teeth with the card, then threw it away.

  His next destination was a section of Manila called Makak.

  It was a strip of beach near the poorest section of the capital city. The structures here were built on stilts, as high tide and sewage frequently ran in the streets. There were many drug addicts and hookers and street beggars down here. There were also many small-time export shops in the area. Housed in tiny huts clustered together into a dreary marketplace, they were known to deal in everything from the cheapest trinket to HD TVs, much of it stolen or illegal knockoffs of expensive items, much of it destined for the United States.

  Uni’s limo looked very out of place here. His Armani suit did, too. His Guccis became muddied as he stepped out onto the street. He had to push a few little beggars away; the limo driver beeping the horn got rid of most of them. This time the limo driver remained in the car, though, with the windows up and doors locked. He kept the engine running, too.

  Uni found the address he was looking for. It was a small, dilapidated hut down a very dark, very busy back alley. The front door was open; Uni walked right in. Here he found boxes stacked to the ceiling, all containing the same item: a plastic Buddha. They were all of the same design, the tubby deity sitting cross-legged, bemused smile, flowing robes, a tiny 10-watt bulb inside to illuminate the illuminated. Like the poker chips, they came in either red or yellow. There were easily hundreds of them here, thousands perhaps.

  A Chinese man was sitting behind an ancient cash register. Uni took out the script Palm Tree had prepared for him, selected the correct color-coded index card, and handed it to the man. “It say here you want two thousand Buddhas?” he asked Uni in broken English, his tone displaying some disbelief.

  Uni nodded, pointing to the place on the script that instructed that 1,000 Buddhas should be the red version and the other 1,000 should be yellow.

  The man was still uncertain. “This big order,” he tried to say. “Not sure I can do.” Uni then handed him an index card with the words: Palm Tree sent me. The man immediately smiled, his lips seemingly going ear to ear. Suddenly he was bowing and trying to kiss Uni’s hand.

  “Palm Tree is a dear friend,” he said. “He is one of my best friends. And for my friends, I move anything. Explosives. Drugs. We send crack directly to the barrios of Los Angeles for him. We can hide anything, anywhere.”

  He waved his arm to indicate the hundreds of chubby statues he had on display. Then he smiled. “So, tell me, what are you going to hide under them?” he asked Uni.

  Uni smiled back, then put his finger to his lips.

  The man understood with a laugh.

  “I get it,” he said. “Top-secret.”

  Uni’s next stop was in a part of South Manila called the Ghost Town.

  It was a section of the city that was dedicated to cemeteries. There were dozens of them, each with its own enclosure, its own main gate, its own name. They were all dreary, creepy, with shabby crucifixes and ancient wooden tomb markers. Rolling hills filled with the dead.

  The limo arrived at an ancient barn that nevertheless had a Jaguar coupe parked out front. It made the limo look shabby. Uni rechecked his index cards, making sure he had the right place. Apparently, he did. He took off his mirrored shades and walked in. The barn was old and rundown and smelled of teak and bananas. The floor was covered with straw. There were huge power saws hanging on the walls and much wood lying about, waiting to be cut. A small window in the roof provided the only light.

  A Filipino man was stooped over a large rectangular wooden box, nailing it together. He paid no attention when Uni came in. Uni walked over to him, but still the man did not acknowledge him. The shuka was prepared for this. He took out the index card, the one with the magical words on it: Palm Tree sent me, and put it in front of the man’s eyes.

  The guy almost went over. Suddenly he was bowing and scraping, groveling with much more zeal than the Buddha salesman. Uni was beginning to like this. He handed him another index card. It told the man that Uni needed three large crates. They had to be built to the exact specifications written on the card.

  The man indicated this would be no problem, then motioned for Uni to come into his back office. They sat down and the man poured them some tea. He explained that he was by trade a coffin maker, but he could build special shipping crates to order for the right people. The back room was indeed filled with coffins.

  The man saw Uni’s interest in his handiwork.

  “At times, the police need to clean up the city’s streets,” he tried to explain. “Not of litter, but of the homeless, the addicts, all the panhandling kids. There’s no place for them, so the police murder them. Then they dump them here. They give me fifty dollars for each…”

  Uni picked up a piece of wood. The man knew what he was thinking. “No—my friend,” he said. “The fifty dollars is not just for the casket. That is cheap. The fifty is for me to get rid of them. So I put them in a box and hide them by burying them in the cemetery. Who would ever think to look there?”

  The coffin maker took out a blue velvet case from his desk drawer. He opened it to reveal a diamond necklace. The light reflected off Uni’s face. The jewels were that brilliant.

  “They are for my wife,” the man explained proudly. He nodded at the stack of coffins behind him, some of them very small. “You see, it’s turning out to be a very good year.”

  Chapter 15

  Uni tasted whiskey for the first time that night.

  A bottle had been placed in the back of the limo the hotel was providing for transportation to his meeting with Ramosa.

  Uni found the fifth of Jack Daniel’s as soon as he climbed in; on hand as well were five chilled glasses, a bucket of ice, and three varieties of mixers: ginger ale, soda water, and seltzer. Four beautiful women had delivered these things to the limo. Uni knew this because all four were sitting in front of him right now, each holding a glass with whiskey and some mix in it. The women were here for instruction purposes, he believed, on the proper way to put alcohol and non-alcohol together. That the hotel thought to send four women to teach him these things, though, seemed like overkill to Uni. One female would have been sufficient to explain it to him, and he would have got it, after a while. There was no reason to send four, each with a sample drink in her hand. And what was with their clothes? They were barely wearing anything.

  It had already been a whirlwind day for him. Lunch, the meetings with the exporter and the woodworker, it had run Uni ragged. He wasn’t used to this hustle and bustle. Luckily, he’d found a few hours to relax.

  He’d returned to the Xagat after visiting Ghost Town, did a Jacuzzi, and then emptied out the minibar again. He’d developed a passion for the Pepsi, saving the bottle-cap for each one he drank. He washed his Armani suit in the bath
tub, using the hotel-supplied shampoo for soap. A room service meal followed. Uni sat on the bed, licked his plates, and channel-surfed for the next two hours.

  A phone call from Palm Tree got him in gear again. He climbed back into his clothes (the Armani was still a bit damp), went downstairs, and found the limo waiting as usual. He and the doorman continued their strange ritual—every time Uni saw him, the man had his hand out, so Uni would shake it. This time he did so quickly, before disappearing into the back of the stretch. And here he found the whiskey and the mixers and the girls to tell him how it all worked.

  The girls mixed several drinks while still parked in front of the hotel, laughing and making odd cooing sounds as they did so. Uni just sat back, patiently, trying to make some sense of it. Finally he raised his hand, took a glass, put in some ice, some whiskey, some ginger ale, stirred it, and sipped it. The girls all clapped, and then laughed when he began staring intently into the clear bottle of ginger ale. That’s when Uni waved all four out of the car; their work here was done. They were very surprised and seemed reluctant to go. One tried to explain to him that friends of his had made sure they could stay with him the whole night, but again Uni just indicated good-bye. He wasn’t so much of an idiot that he couldn’t mix his own beverages. There was another, brief protest, but then the girls just gave up.

  They left him in the backseat of the limo, staring into the ginger ale bottle, clearly fascinated by the bubbles.

  The trip through the muddy slums of the city’s east side took twice as long as it should have. The limo had to make its way through streets jammed with hookers and beggars. In some places, traffic was slowed to a crawl, so many of these people were about. They were attracted to the limo like flies.

  Finally, Uni’s driver pulled up to the main gate of the east side docks. It was now about 10:00 P.M. A deep mist was rolling into the area. Foghorns moaned; bells clanged. The stink of exhaust, marine oil, and dead fish mixed with the salty air. Uni, though, loved the smell.

  He stepped out of the limo and had a short, fractured communication with the driver. Uni wanted the limo to wait for him and very unwisely stuck a fistful of money in the driver’s face as incentive. But the driver never gave the money a second glance. Some places in Manila you just don’t hang around—and this was one of them.

  So he just rolled up the window and drove away.

  Uni found himself alone in the fog. He started walking. He was looking for Pier 55; the driver had dropped him at Pier 7. There were many old boats, fishing shacks, and loading areas down here, but just about no lighting. Uni could see faces in the shadows, though, some illuminated by the glow of cigarettes, the glint coming from a knife blade, or the barrel of a gun. None of this bothered him. He just kept walking.

  He heard gunfire just as he was passing Pier 13, off in the distance, piercing the encroaching fog. Uni was not armed; in fact, he’d never even fired a gun, let alone owned one. Strange, here he was doing the work of both Al Qaeda and the judus, and yet he was not carrying a weapon of any kind.

  He passed Pier 26, nearly halfway to his goal. Suddenly a figure stumbled out of the darkness, falling from a doorway next to a dilapidated warehouse. The man was bleeding heavily. Indeed, he still had a knife sticking out of his ribs.

  He staggered up to Uni, mumbled something, but then kept right on going.

  And so did Uni.

  He finally reached Pier 55.

  It was at the far end of the dock, and down here the piers were so old they were literally falling into the water. Uni stood on the edge for a moment, trying to get his bearings. Then another figure came out of the fog walking toward him. This one was not bleeding. Uni saw the eyes before he saw the face. It was Ramosa.

  They shook hands. The foghorn moaned again.

  Ramosa smiled pure gold. “Let’s get down to the boat,” he said. “We have a bit of a journey to make.”

  Uni thought, Boat? What boat?

  He followed Ramosa down the gangplank to find sitting at the end of the dock the blue, white, and red yacht.

  Uni was thrilled. He’d been told nothing about a trip out to sea. He’d just assumed the weapons were in hiding inside a building along the waterfront. Now he was overjoyed about going on the yacht again. Before this, Uni had always hated the water. Hated being above it, hated being in it. Even hated drinking it. But the yacht was so big and so unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He felt safe on it. And at top speed, it seemed like the water was moving for him.

  Ramosa saw his delight as they were climbing aboard. “This should be a very pleasant trip,” he said.

  The vessel was 75 feet long, made of both teakwood and fiberglass, with accommodations for up to 20 and a crew of 12. When Uni had taken the ride with Kazeel earlier, the yacht’s crew were wearing white shirts and shorts. Now they were each dressed in a black combat suit with a shoulder patch identifying them as members of Ramosa’s secret police. There were several females onboard this time too, working as servants of course.

  The yacht slowly moved out of the harbor, leaving the fog bank behind. Uni was ushered to a seat on the stern—the view from here was spectacular. The water was calm; the stars were sparkling; a full moon was on the rise. Over his shoulder, the city of Manila, lights ablaze but receding. The water ahead was deep coral blue in the starshine. The ocean breeze felt good blowing across his bald head. Uni lay back in his seat and smiled.

  He was in Paradise, so to speak.

  They arrived at their first destination just before midnight. It was the island of Gugu. Just a spit of volcanic rock among the hundreds, located about twenty miles outside Manila Bay. It featured a small mountain on one side, a tiny beach on the other, and a lot of jungle in between.

  There was an elaborate pier hidden beneath some overhanging azure trees. Four men were waiting here to help them dock the boat. The lights of Luzon were way behind them now, but the moon was rising and it was surprisingly bright. It cast elegant shadows everywhere.

  Uni recognized this place, of course. He’d been here before—the first time he and Kazeel had been in town. But on that occasion, Uni had been left at the dock while everyone else had disappeared into the jungle. That would not be the case tonight though. This time, he was the guest of honor.

  They climbed off the yacht and made their way inland with no problems. Ramosa was in the lead, Uni and six of the yacht’s crew trailing behind. They walked along a well-established path for about five minutes before coming to a high chain-link fence bordering a patch of ground at the foot of the mountain. Here they found two heavily armed men, sitting in the darkness.

  It was hard for Uni to tell if these guys were Aboo guerrillas or more of Ramosa’s secret policemen. Actually there was little difference between the two. The gunmen jumped to attention at the first sight of Ramosa. They opened the chain gate and escorted the small party through the hidden compound. Beyond lay a man-made tunnel that had been drilled into the side of the mountain. Uni was fascinated by it. It would have seemed to be a monstrous undertaking, to smash one’s way into God’s earth like this. Back in Pakistan, they just crawled in and out of the holes. Reading his thoughts, Ramosa said to him: “This was built during World War Two. By the Americans….”

  They went through the entrance to find a large artificial cavern within. Its ceiling was at least 50 feet high and was as wide as a soccer field. Again Uni was wide-eyed, enchanted. This place looked right out of a James Bond movie. It was as bright as day inside, its walls lined with high-tech equipment and flashing lights, with many guards walking gangplanks up near the ceiling and looking down on everything from above.

  This was a very elaborate weapons bunker. Pallets of rifles, machine guns, rocket launchers, were stacked everywhere. Many of them were packed in crates that looked like miniature coffins. Uni recognized the handiwork.

  There were also several unexploded cruise missiles on display, along with a handful of JDAMs and other American smart bombs.

  “Left over from
Afghanistan and Iraq,” Ramosa told Uni as they passed this cache. “Sometimes they come down where the Americans don’t expect them to. And sometimes, they just don’t explode.”

  They reached an inner chamber. It, too, was well lit and watched over by armed men. Ramosa led Uni to what looked like a small mountain of suitcases. They were made of black leather, long and thin, but would not have looked out of place on a baggage rack at any airport. They were stacked in pyramid fashion.

  Ramosa smiled; his gold teeth flashed in the overhead lighting.

  “My friend, your launchers…” he said.

  Two guards stepped forward, retrieved one of the cases, and opened it for Uni’s inspection. Inside was the five-foot-long rail-like launcher, with an IR aiming device attached that looked like a flattened soup can. And while it was obvious even to Uni that the suitcases were made to look nothing but ordinary, each one had a small battery-operated cooling unit built inside. This device kept the key components of the launcher’s aiming system at the correct temperature during transport and storage.

  Uni contemplated the hill of launchers now. They all seemed in good shape, which was a great relief. He bowed simply to Ramosa. The policemen immediately began shouting orders. A squad of armed men appeared, and began carrying the launchers out of the bunker, two at a time.

  Uni smiled broadly now. So did Ramosa. This part of the plan at least was done.

  The launchers had all been loaded aboard the yacht by the time Ramosa and Uni returned. They shoved off from the hidden pier and once clear of the island’s shoals turned not south, back to Manila, but west, toward deeper water.

  Uni was delighted by this. They were going someplace else! The night was still very warm and the moon was shining close to full glory. He took his seat at the back of the yacht again. One of the female servants brought him a glass of champagne—those bubbles again!—and of all things, a large bowl filled with cherries.