by Tom Anthony
Although Thornton found the day interesting, he was worried about time, about when the Abu Sayaf would make their next move, and asked Elaiza, “Why did you bring me here? Couldn’t we recruit these guys in a civilized place?”
“No. Being here is important. If you want the Otazas to work for us, you had to come to them first.”
Pedro Otaza, wearing floppy sandals, blue shorts and an almost white tee shirt, sat with his four brothers on logs or stools eating rice from a common bowl and scooping up pieces of fried pork with their fingers, laughing and smiling about whatever one of the others said, and drinking beer from cans while passing around a bottle of cheap brandy. The younger Otazas trusted Pedro to handle the planning. Elaiza introduced Thornton who shook hands with each of the Otazas in return and took a long swig of the brandy they offered.
“I hear that you and your brothers know how to shoot?” Thornton said to Pedro.
Pedro stood up with his .22 rifle and moved to the outer edge of the circle of people, took aim and a small bird fell from a nearby tree.
“We shoot birds with our .22s to feed the dogs. It’s not difficult. We’re good shots. We also have experience with knives, with our bolos.”
Thornton asked, “How do you defend against an upward thrust?”
Pedro stood up and drew his bolo while Thornton tested him. “This is thrust, parry, slash.” Pedro adequately countered the standard moves in their mock combat, a stab from above defended by a raised forearm, a forward thrust parried and deflected.
“But have you actually fought other men?” Thornton asked.
Pedro showed Thornton his left hand. It had a fresh cut deep into the meat between his left thumb and index finger and had been sewn back together with a piece of cotton cord of the same texture and tensile that Americans would use to sew up stuffed turkeys at Thanksgiving.
“Sometimes you have to defend with your bare hands. It’s better than being stabbed.”
Thornton looked at Pedro’s wound. “Who fixed that for you?”
“I sewed it together myself. Luckily, I’m right-handed and could use my fishing net needle.” Pedro tightened the cord, poured brandy over the wound, and caught the run-off excess in a cup. He looked for a moment at the few drops of blood in the brandy, and drank it. “No reason to waste good Tanduay.”
“If his brothers are like him, I think we have our team,” Thornton later told Elaiza.
“He’ll drive the jeepney back to Toril. It will give you a chance to get to know each other. His brothers will do whatever he says.” Elaiza had already talked with Pedro.
When it was time to start back, family members respectfully pushed into the jeepney. One of Elaiza’s young cousins, the pubescent Jenyvie, crowded into the front seat and sat on Thornton’s lap. She was fascinated with the strange guy she saw as a great albino carabao in dark sunglasses, but also wanted to escape the squeeze of the other dozen or so cousins pried into the back rows of seats with their parents. Elaiza debated with the curious child in Visayan and after a few minutes the girl squeezed over the seat and joined her cousins.
As they drove on, the tinny sound from the jeepney’s radio entertained the travelers with Karaoke-suitable Rod Stewart sound-alikes, interspersed with news from the province capital. Things were heating up again in Zamboanga since the well-publicized arrival of the U.S. advisors now engaged in a joint military exercise—named Talon Vision—with the Philippine Army. The happily singing load of kids and cousins were oblivious to the news, which Thornton listened to closely. All the radio stations in Davao City were reporting the elevated threat of terrorist activity and Mayor Fuentes had announced a red alert for the upcoming holiday parades. Task Force Davao and the local police would be putting up roadblocks and opening the trunks of every passing car to check for explosive devices.
The road they traveled was a rehabilitation project under the administration of the previous president, but it was still a two-lane muddy path. During the past few years over five million U.S. dollars had been spent on construction but almost no work had been done. The money sent down from the capital dissipated somehow along the way, as it filtered through the various layers of government on its path from Manila to Mindanao. The intended economic impact of immediate construction, jobs and the pathway for produce to move to the seaport of Butuan, the gateway to the impoverished province, devolved into just another slush fund program of graft and bickering. Maybe the vision of the NPA, the communist idealists, had some merit for this large island, divided by religious and commercial differences and unable to compromise with a central government so far removed from them in distance and in philosophy.
The stops along the way back to Davao City from the dam made Thornton nervous. Each stop ate up too much time and exposed them to close inspection whenever they were outside the jeepney.
North of Tagum the jeepney stopped along the road and the passengers moved respectfully into a small cemetery. “Please come with me.” Elaiza invited Thornton to join her family and he followed her down a narrow forest path, scratching his head slightly on a low-hanging limb. Elaiza checked out the scratch, taking his arm for a moment to show him the way.
“This is my mother’s grave. We all stop here whenever we return to Agusan.”
Thornton looked for birth and death dates on a tombstone, but the grave was covered only by a primitive, uneven concrete slab, with no dates or names.
Elaiza brushed shoulders with Thornton as they stood there, silent, thinking that someday she’d lie here beside her mother. It seemed to Thornton that she leaned ever so slightly against him for a moment of support and comfort.
As the group left the cemetery, Thornton took Elaiza’s elbow and escorted her back to the jeepney. While she was fussing with the young girls to get back into the vehicle, without being seen by Elaiza, Thornton talked aside to the caretaker standing by the gate, an older man who seemed to be permanently camped by the entrance and nearly ready for a place there himself. The caretaker asked Thornton for a few pesos tip, which he received, along with an unexpected offer.
“Can you contract to fix up the Otakan grave?” and offered the man five hundred dollars in cash.
The caretaker beamed, “For that, I can do anything you want.”
Thornton made a sketch in his notebook and tore out a page, which he gave to the caretaker with a combination lock he kept in his canvas backpack. “When the project is finished, put this lock on the compartment in back of the tombstone,” and gave him the open lock.
Thornton jumped back into the jeepney as Elaiza made a place for him beside her.
South of Tagum, Thornton received a text message on his cell phone: “U.S. Consulate, Davao City, reports explosion, a taxi rammed through the gate, exploded, area sprayed with blood, crater blown into pavement, several known dead, the Homeland Security Officer on site. Confirm.” He punched in “Roger, Out” to acknowledge receipt.
“Kapitan Tomas,” Elaiza’s intonation showed her concern, “I know that frown means something not too good.”
“I’ll explain when we have some time alone. The Abu Sayaf hit our consulate, but no need to disturb everyone else. Let it rest. Hayes is OK.” From now until they arrived back in the isolation and relative safety of Toril, Thornton felt that the Muslim insurgents could sense them, small ants crawling along on the sticky, muddy road.
Pedro continued to drive the jeepney, and when they stopped Thornton gave him the additional duty to stay close and to watch—not near, but close—with his bolo sharp but hidden. Thornton hoped that in the coming days Pedro would recruit his Manobo brothers to work with him on the mission he was about to commence, now made urgent by the news he had just received.
Thornton decided it was too soon to brief Pedro, but Elaiza needed to know now. Following the bombing, there could be insurgent activity on their return route, which meant she would have to re-direct their return to Toril and back to what he hoped was his safe house. Even though he was wearing a bush hat and unnecessari
ly long sleeves, anyone could see from a distance that Thornton was a white guy. But Elaiza blended in, or would if she didn’t dress quite so uptown. Even under the most flowing native skirt, it would be hard not to notice her form when she moved, lean muscle tightened by hand-to-hand combat training and laps around the gym back in Singapore or Manila. They both would need to think more about their dress habits.
As the afternoon wore on, the Otakans and Otazas began to depart and return to their homes in nearby villages, except Pedro, who would stay near Toril, and some of the cousins from the city. While Pedro dozed on a bench in front of the restaurant, Thornton showed Elaiza the saved message from Major Hayes: “Abu Sayaf blew up consulate; dozen killed. Get back ASAP. Carefully.”
She put her head down, straight black hair swinging forward, hiding her concern. He could almost feel the GPS signal searing into her brain. This territory was her home, and she knew where the paths and roads were and were not.
Elaiza woke Pedro and spoke intensely to him in Visayan, giving him all the information he needed to know at that moment. Thornton’s cell phone vibrated again. He said nothing but showed Elaiza the new text message: “US Attaché and 20 civilians dead, suicide bomber with them, blast at Davao Airport, return. STAGCOM.”
In Manila, the U.S. Embassy issued a warning to U.S. citizens not to travel in the Philippines.
Elaiza looked at Thornton seriously. “It’s started.”
12
Sergeant Starke
From the small balcony of his apartment overlooking the Davao River, Hank Starke watched a river ferry, a larger banka, picking up passengers at the Bankerohan wharf. Men and women alike wearing blue jeans and tee shirts, the contemporary unisex dress code in Davao City, crossed above the brown water on a narrow wooden plank to board a boat that would take them on their commute upstream to an inland village or to the provinces across the river and away from the city proper. Directly below the balcony in the alley, two squatting women wearing conical, hand-woven grass hats were grilling chicken parts on a handmade grill set up in the street and conversing. A short-legged, obese, brown and white dog wearing a leather harness settled in beside them, arched his back and strained, placing a smooth, nicely tapered shape next to the women. It did not disturb the preparation of their food.
Before the relative cool of the morning turned into the predictably sultry day, Starke pushed through the curtain of hanging plastic beads that separated the open balcony from the living area. The beads produced a soothing, clinking jingle. He boiled a pot of water and made three cups of weak black tea with double sugars. As the twins began to twitch and stretch out in their drowsiness, he placed two of the cups onto the small rattan table beside their shared bed. Starke liked their unique relationship and would regret the day it would end, as all things must, but for now, why should he give it all up? The twins had been living with him, on and off, since that first night. He had come to suspect they might not be actual twins, maybe sisters, or maybe just friends. He didn’t care.
While he watched them, he contemplated the deal Thornton was suggesting. Should he get involved in a lot of potential trouble with his business partner? Should he try to talk him out of a mercenary deal? They had a good enough business, and neither wanted another tragedy like the one Thornton had lived through in Eastern Europe. He didn’t talk about it much. Starke thought, “This is not my country. My country doesn’t care about either me or this far-away place. All my friends back in Ohio are totally ignorant of this place, this culture, even that these people exist. My best bet is just to continue like I am.”
Starke had been a wrestler in high school before he joined the army, and was still remembered as a sparkplug in the beer joints around North Canton, Ohio. His center of gravity was so low that it seemed theoretically impossible according to the laws of physics for him to be upset, let alone pinned. Not fat, but stable and broad based, with Popeye’s arms and a wrestler’s wrists, when he went on the attack, narrowing his eyes, adversaries felt the challenge, and most eventually succumbed.
As he aged, Starke began to look like Larry Csonka, the Hall of Fame fullback of the Miami Dolphins, with a rounded face and what would be called a pug nose if it were at all cute and not just pushed up. He was somewhere in his forties, and it was evident that his black hair had once been thick, but it was now thinning in front with an ample supply clinging in back, left uncut to grow long where it existed and then pulled forward over the barren space. When he emerged from a pool or the sea, the longer hair formed pointed peaks falling outward to give him the appearance of having used a crosscut saw to trim the outline. His deep-set eyes did not twinkle when his brows furrowed, but when he threw back his heavy head in laughter, you saw a man you would like to know better. His unusual features were not unattractive to the local ladies, his pensive stare being interpreted as sincerity, which it was, although perhaps not always sincere in the innocent way the ladies supposed.
The twins tolerated him, and he took care of them. The week before, Jade had developed a lingering cough at night. The next day all three had the flu and fevers. Starke decided to take himself and the twins to a doctor to get an antibiotic prescribed. He had never really been sick since arriving in Mindanao, and had had his annual physical at the Long Beach Veterans Hospital during his last trip stateside, so he had no personal doctor in Davao City. Jasmine located a public clinic and gave five pesos to a boy to run ahead and hold a place in line for them. Dozens of small shops in what was supposed to have been a parking lot constituted en masse the neighborhood marketplace for the barrio. The door to the doctor’s office was located between an open-air tobacco stand and a vendor selling dried fish. Jade held her nose. Cigarette smoke drifted into the clinic. A young man was waiting in line, holding his right hand, which had almost been cut off, wrapped in a bloody towel. A pretty young woman with her left foot growing where her knee should be was breast-feeding her baby while she balanced herself on a short crutch. The place was dusty, and brown dirt collected on the ridges of the reception desk. A fat, sweating woman wearing a tight pink tee shirt and jeans, made up a medical history for Starke and the twins, writing the information onto a lined tablet in pencil.
Eventually, they got to see a woman doctor who seemed professional and competent. She prescribed vitamin pills and some herbal medicines, which the fat woman dispensed as they left. The total cost for the doctor and medicines for the three of them was less than thirteen U.S. dollars. Within a week, all three were cured.
When she saw that Starke had entered the living room, Jade got up and gently pushed him into the big easy chair and sat on his lap holding her cup of tea on a saucer. “Thanks for being so thoughtful. It’s not just the tea; I like that you take care of me. Of us.”
“You’re no trouble.” Starke rocked back and balanced her strategically. “I like you two, too.”
“Do you like us more than your wife?” Jade purred like a cat.
“You know I have no wife.” Starke knew he was being gently harassed.
“I want to know why you left her. Her skin was whiter than ours. I’ve seen her picture.” Jasmine liked to tease him, too.
“In America, guys like girls that are tan. You look tan to me. I like you the way you are.”
“But your ex-wife looks pretty. Do you still love her? You still send money to her.” Jade joined the hazing session.
“It’s the law. I made a divorce settlement.” Starke wanted to change the subject. “I have to support my ex-wife and her husband.”
The twins looked at each other for a second, then at Starke, covered their mouths with their hands and giggled.
Starke was having fun, and rocked back in his chair. “You two girls going to work early today, is that what you told me?”
“Yes, Morris has us working early today, starting at noon. His regular waitresses are taking a day off because once Kadayawan starts we’ll all work fourteen-hour shifts. But they work harder than we do, we have breaks when we’re dancing. They ha
ve to carry food and pour drinks non-stop.” Jade set her tea back down and massaged Starke’s head.
“I’ll see you then. I may be meeting Thornton there later.”
“Oh him. I don’t like him.” Jade surprised Starke.
“Why is that? You hardly know him.”
“Because he wants you to do things for him, things he doesn’t want to do himself. That means he’s taking advantage of you.”
Jasmine had joined them and was sitting at Starke’s feet, checking out the pedicure she had given him and touching it up, “I think so too. He’ll get you in trouble. It’s better that you just stay here and enjoy life.”
Starke closed his eyes and breathed it all in, not caring what they said about Thomas Thornton. He began to doze, and the girls steered him back to the bed where they continued their massage until he snored.
Starke’s cell phone blinked and vibrated on the cardboard desk he had rigged up beside his chair on the balcony. He left his nest with the twins and picked it up. “Hank, you awake?” It was Thornton. “Can you meet with Moser and me?”
“Sure Bro,’ my calendar is all blank.” Starke sounded wide-awake.
“I’ll be at the usual place. Maybe I’ll even buy you a beer.”
Starke knew the usual place and answered, “I’ll get myself all shined up. My girls in the next room have to work there today anyway.” He hung up and continued to enjoy the fresh air, reading yesterday’s newspaper.
He thought again about the job Thornton was offering him, an interesting undertaking that appealed to his adventurous side, with potential for real wealth for himself, but with the inevitable risk of paying too big a price if he lost the game—not only a chance of being killed, but, if not that, the distinct possibility of a serious wound far from medical facilities, or being captured by the Abu Sayaf and held captive for a long time, if they would ever release him. It had happened to others before. Any time lost could never be regained. But he could win big; one last consulting assignment, and he could upgrade his digs here in the city, put his share into a conservative bond fund, and maybe even set up a bar over in Mati. Considering his life at the moment, taking a chance with STAGCOM seemed a reasonable gamble.
