Rebels of Mindanao

by Tom Anthony

  Hargens heard him, didn’t completely understand, but had to start the meeting. He wrung his bony hands, nodded respectfully to Congressman Galan, and addressed the entire group. “Yesterday may have been a day of defeat for the NPA, but those outlaws don’t know about events outside Mindanao. They’re waiting for international support, for global revolt against the ‘imperialistic and capitalistic’ Americans, using their terms. You have to realize that’s what they believe. Let’s see what happens next; it’s just never over.”

  “Well, this chapter is over, anyway.” Thornton gazed around the room. “But don’t you wonder, what have we really learned here, what difference will it make a hundred years from now if our photos are hanging on that wall and MacArthur is forgotten and is as irrelevant as U.S. Grant today? What have we really changed?”

  “Maybe you and I remember why the old wars were fought; the newer generations don’t know; they haven’t studied history.” The general did remember.

  “We just waste our time proving once again that power always wins,” Thornton answered Hargens and paused while the others thought about what he meant. He continued, “Foreigners just enforce their foreign superstitions on Filipino citizens over tribal superstitions, with missionary preaching mixed in.” True to his rabble-rouser label, he could not stop.

  “And thank you, U.S. government, corporations and taxpayers for funding both sides in this war,” Thornton continued. “If America didn’t send money here, and the Arabs also didn’t, there would be none to steal or to be filtered off by the several levels of graft between Manila and Mindanao.”

  “That is truly superficial and arrogant, Mr. Thornton,” interjected the ambassador, who had his own opinion and the official position to sell. Tapping his ballpoint pen a little too hard on the table, the furrow in his brow deepening, the ambassador looked as though he was ready to spit. This civilian “contractor” guy was done with his job. And tomorrow Hargens would be in his plush JUSMAG office, while Congressman Galan would be busy shuffling routine papers. But for him here in the embassy there would be new issues, new politics, the same indigenous tribes and established interest groups emerging with different icons and newer slogans, and a whole new crop of Filipino generals whom he would have to meet on the lunch and dinner circuit to learn their names and agendas. He would have to wrestle with reporters from the Star and the Inquirer and think about the delicate phrasing of the next press releases that he would have to concoct concerning what USAID and the JUSMAG advisors were up to in the field. He prayed he would not have to shut down the embassy again because of street demonstrations against America.

  The conversation in the conference room was becoming testy. “The Filipino citizen needs to do more for himself to prevail against internal terrorist threats. We can’t do it for you.” Ambassador Richardson needed to impress Galan with the U.S. position. His country was busy in too many other places in the world to hold their hands forever.

  “We didn’t ask you to.” Galan stated frankly. “In fact, if you remember, we didn’t want you here in the first place.”

  Thornton had had enough. “Anyway, I’m out of here, before your next war against the Lumads. I’ve lost everything I care about. There can’t be real peace in Mindanao until the MNLF cuts its ties with the Al Qaeda and the Abu Sayaf, and they never will. That’s all they have, those poor, desperate bastards.”

  “OK, I know, we can’t defeat a desperate populace.” The time for Galan’s political opportunities was growing nearer, and he was positioning himself to further his reputation and position with the electorate. “But there are criminal elements that must be wiped out so our good people, Christian and others, will be able to build a nation.”

  Ambassador Richardson wanted to remind all those present that the Republic of the Philippine Islands was not the only country in the world where the U.S. was involved, and it was far from the top of the list in importance, but said it as tactfully as a career diplomat could and still make a point: “Congressman, it is your country and your show, but we will always be your ally. You should assess the remaining strength of the NPA and give us your official report. We’ll continue to assist your forces in the field, and to help with the immediate image problems you may have. The U.S. Embassy will sign a memorandum of support for the government as having successfully defeated this particular terrorist plot. You can decide the venue and how you want us to announce it. Go ahead, make some hay.”

  It seemed fortuitous that the new, unintroduced lieutenant who had been called out of the meeting returned at that moment, marching quiedy but at a quick pace. It broke the tension. He came up behind Hargens and reported, “You will want to see this first, General Hargens; we just received it.”

  Hargens read the message and handed the sheet of paper to Thornton. “You won’t like this, but you have to know. We received the following text that will appear in today’s Mindanao Times. They sent it to us as a courtesy.” Thornton read:

  Called by a videoke bar owner, Morris O’Neil, city police were asked to investigate a suspicious situation. The resident of a flat in Claveria Street had not responded to a telephone call from a friend, although known to be in the flat. The owner of the flat supplied keys and accompanied police, who found the body of a large white man, American, Henry Starke, known to have been the occupant of the flat.

  The police are releasing no additional information as the matter is under investigation. However, the owner of the building told reporters of the Mindanao Times that the cause of death was most unusual and not natural. It was reported that the man died due to the presence of a high-heeled spike from a lady’s shoe having pierced the left eyeball and an identical spike through the other eye, both having penetrated into the brain and still in place when the detectives arrived. The apartment was otherwise undisturbed, although a U.S. one hundred dollar bill was found on the floor. Thus robbery is not the suspected motive.

  On the dead man’s chest, the informant learned from detectives, were an unset jade stone and a single jasmine flower. The police were not aware of the significance of these symbols, but are seeking two female friends of the deceased who shared the apartment with him, seen leaving the downtown area with a certain Lateef, known to be a criminal wanted by the PNP.

  Thornton stood up, left the room and walked outside into the small garden in the open atrium centered within the political side of the embassy. As he re-read the entire article, the song Elaiza had sung while moving around the house in Toril came back to Thornton in a new version to haunt him even more: Did you get everything you came for, Sergeant Starke, old buddy?

  Thornton thought that no one could ever find final resolution, the end of problems. But Starke had reached his end at the hands of those perfidious twins. He thought about the symbols left on his chest by those damn women. By now they had probably escaped to some village deep in the interior, waiting until the time was right to slip out clandestinely through Indonesia. Jade and Jasmine would comfortably find their way to wherever they wanted to start their next lives.

  When Thornton returned to the room the atmosphere was different. He sank into his chair. Galan came to one side, Hargens the other, sheltering him from the sympathetic glances of the others.

  Hargens made his offer to Thornton, “Tom, I heard about the loss of the girl and I know about your relationship with her. Obviously I can’t replace her, but I’ll get you on a military flight out of here, to anywhere.”

  “Thanks, Luke, but there’s no place to go from here.”

  “Think about it, a house on the beach in Thailand may give you a place to hang your hat. I can get you there,” Hargens said.

  The lieutenant came over to Hargens again. “General, there’s something you should see that’s showing up on our maps in the operations center.” The young officer brought a laptop to Hargens, with a live satellite view of western Mindanao on the screen. “We’re picking up signals from the TIAM; we have it on high resolution.”

  Thornton pushed past Harg
ens and the lieutenant, and there it was, traced out on the ground by Elaiza using her iPod. He felt every muscle in his body contract and heard his heart pounding.

  “Luke. She’s alive!” Thornton saw what had attracted the ops center’s attention. Paced out on the land in small, precise letters by the TIAM was a single word, TOMAS.

  Thornton threw his head up and said to Hargens, “I’m going back to Mindanao.”

  37

  Mount Apo

  Mahir and the demoralized remnants of his retreating patrol were moving toward Mount Apo. Mahir had nothing left to save but his life. Maybe he could trade the woman he had dragged along with him for that. But for now he had to hide until the situation returned to some kind of normalcy. Mahir had no way of knowing the extent of Colonel Liu’s effectiveness the day before in exploiting his artillery barrage with an infantry assault on Itig.

  Breathing hard and stumbling over rocks, Mahir withdrew with the men in his immediate command toward higher ground as fast as he could. He untied Elaiza’s hands so she could balance herself and move faster. The idea that maybe he could trade her for safe passage kept going through his mind.

  Meanwhile, artillery forward observers of the AFP no longer concerned with Itig identified a platoon-sized unit of the NPA in the open and reported it as a target of opportunity, not knowing it was the Turk moving to a safer place.

  A single spotting round from a 105mm howitzer landed about 400 meters from Mahir’s position. Mahir knew he was in imminent danger when the next explosion occurred about 200 meters closer to him than the first impact. When sixty-five seconds later a third single round exploded a close 100 meters from him, it was clear that his position had been bracketed. The explosions splintered trees and threw up debris upon impact along a straight line leading directly back to the cannon that had fired the spotting rounds. Mahir expected that the next impact would not be another single round but rather a six-round volley impacting right on top of him, from which there would be little chance of survival.

  To minimize the risk of getting into the direct line of fire, Mahir wisely chose to move perpendicular to the imaginary line established by the three impacts. He also thought perhaps he should simply shoot his captive here, as she was just slowing him down. The possibility of using her for bargaining purposes with the government forces became less advantageous with each passing minute.

  After the Fire Direction Center of the Count-down Battalion, the 3/21 Field Artillery, recalculated the trajectory to the target based on reports of the impacts, Colonel Liu watched as fire direction control officers entered information from the forward observers into their computers. He had ordered a barrage of three volleys by one entire battery, and the artillery commander selected fragmentation rounds, which were calibrated to explode about thirty feet above ground, thereby inflicting maximum killing effect on the exposed enemy personnel. An officer transferred the corrected deflection and elevation data to the howitzer positions where a gunnery sergeant barked out slight alterations, changes in direction and elevation, to be cranked into the guns, determining which of the enemy would live or die. Soon the howitzers were poised to deliver their deadly munitions.

  The battery commander ordered “Fire!” and the first six rounds were on the way. Immediately the howitzer crews clanked open the breeches of their guns and loaded another six rounds, which were in the air before the first six had impacted on the target, followed later by the final volley of the barrage to make a total of eighteen artillery rounds on their way to meet Mahir and his soldiers moving above the tree line on the boulder-strewn, open slopes of Mount Apo.

  The Philippine Army artillerymen had correctly adjusted their firing data. One round of the first full volley took out Mahir’s point man and several armed followers when the electronic detonators exploded the projectiles above them, slicing limbs from torsos exactly as intended. Three other rounds were near misses, causing casualties among the rebels and blinding a NPA squad leader bringing up his team to protect Mahir’s left flank.

  Mahir, his men and the woman with them ran from the rocky terrain into the jungle, but they could move only a few dozen yards in the few seconds before the next volley arrived on target. They were now in the wrong place at exactly the wrong moment. The second volley of six rounds exploded above them, and only the thick jungle canopy protected them from being shredded to bits. The artillery rounds detonated above the foliage, which bore the full force of the explosions. A shower of branches, leaves and coconut fragments covered Mahir’s group. The last volley landed on Mahir’s third squad, leaving a red layer of blood and torn flesh splattering the green foliage.

  In a clear and open area unprotected when the barrage arrived on target, shards of steel cut three or four of Mahir’s men into unrecognizable parts, making it uncertain how many men had been standing in that place. A rifleman ran toward Mahir holding his shoulder together with his right hand where his left arm had been severed, screaming as blood pumped for a few more seconds. Mahir saw men with legs shattered and white bones exposed, men living but wishing they were not. Bleeding from death wounds but not yet realizing they had been hit, two men leaned on opposite sides of a coconut palm. The leader of Mahir’s second squad struggled off the barren patch with another almost dead soldier, blood soaking through the seat of his Levi’s trousers. Those remaining alive on the mountain when the shelling stopped assembled near the dead and tried to hang on to their own lives, considering themselves blessed.

  The exhausted survivors spiraled down the slopes of the great Mount Apo, desperately looking for any embankment or gully, however insignificant, that might protect them from the unseen but lethal artillery. Dragging with them comrades who might live, the haggard men worked their way lower into the scrub brush following Mahir’s lead. With a sense of urgency, they made their way back into the forested areas where they hoped they would be swallowed up by the dense jungle.

  With nine of his remaining irregulars, Mahir finally reached a point below a rounded outcropping of volcanic rock that fortunately offered some overhead cover. Once below the tree line and in a defensible position, he tried to regroup and decide what to do next. Saved by the concealing shadows of a fast approaching night, the patrol settled in.

  Working as best he could to reorganize his men and keep them from deserting, Mahir did not pay much attention to Elaiza, except to notice that she was limping back and forth and moaning quietly as she appeared to rub her bruises. He knew she could not go far and could be easily recaptured or shot if she attempted to escape.

  Elaiza was amazed that she had suffered only a few scratches and contusions during her flight from the artillery attack. The bloodstains on her clothing came from Mahir’s men who were not so fortunate. It was reassuring to her to know that the device she switched on in her iPod would pinpoint her location and track her movements, footstep by limping footstep, as she faked her injuries. If the U.S. embassy knew exactly where she was, they would know to a great degree of accuracy also where Mahir and his team were, at least close enough for the STAGCOM team to be directed toward her and to move into a coordinated attack, certainly accurate enough to call in artillery or an air strike as had already been proven. As she paced her message on the ground, she hoped it would not be an aerial bomb attack.

  Early the next morning Thornton arrived back at Liu’s forward command post as the fire direction officer reported to Colonel Liu, “We have visual now, sir. When we got the coordinates from the Americans, we had one of our forward observers take up a position from where he could observe the site through his binoculars. As soon as we had daylight, he identified a tall, Arab-looking man.”

  “That would have to be the Turk.” Liu knew it and had the fire direction center show Thornton precisely on his map the exact ravine into which the enemy patrol had descended.

  “Reggie, you’ve got to let me go get them. That’s the woman who gave us, all of us, the exact position of the rebels.” Thornton was calling in his chips. “You owe her, and you
owe me.”

  “I think she’s a lot more than that to you.” Liu’s support for Thornton was immediate and unequivocal. “OK. Check your map; get the exact location marked from our fire direction center. So go and do what you must. Take my jeep; you’ll need it where you’re going.”

  “God, Reggie. Thanks. You should be more careful, I lose everyone who helps me.”

  “Hurry, I’m not making any promises about when we unload everything we have on them.” Liu grabbed Thornton and gave him a quick handshake. “Now’s your chance.”

  Liu ordered his staff to hold the scheduled artillery fire, intentionally giving Thornton a window of time to get to Elaiza.

  Already halfway to the jeep, Thornton grabbed Pedro by the arm and pulled him along, “Get your brothers up and into Liu’s jeep! It’s time for us to be on our own. We’re going to get Elaiza!” Thornton was glad to have a guy like Pedro-as well as his two remaining brothers-to back him up. It didn’t take long for Pedro to react; the Otazas had been waiting for Thornton to return from Manila.

  Thornton pulled his safari hat on tight and lightly touched his front trousers pocket to feel the weight of the small back-up pistol he always carried there, concealed, and flung his almost antique carbine, accurate for short-range shots, onto his shoulder, hooking its leather sling behind his canteen to be held out of the way.

  While Pedro hurried Vicente and Reymundo into the back seat of the jeep, Thornton checked his map and determined his route to the coordinates where Elaiza was being held. Almost before they were loaded, Thornton drove away from the command post too fast for road conditions, the steering wheel and gearshift comfortable in his hands, reminding him of active duty in other times and places. He bumped past the tents of the infantry brigades now guarded by only a few soldiers, and raced along the main road to Bual, the village north of the artillery positions, then into the foothills of Mount Apo.