by Bob Mayer
Vaughn leaned back in the plush comfort of the limo. Between the Leaijet and the limousine, there could be no more startling contrast between this and the way he had always gone on missions for Delta Force, via military cargo planes, helicopters, and parachuting.
He ran his hands over the metal case and noted in a distant way that they were shaking slightly. Exhaustion? The stress of the past week? The uncertainty of the future? He didn’t know. Probably all of the above.
This was the first time he’d ever gone on a mission without a team. In the infantry, the Special Forces, and Delta Force, he’d always been part of a team. He’d always been able to count on the support of others to achieve the mission. He looked around the spacious interior of the limousine and longed for the cramped quarters of the back of a Combat Talon.
He’d made the decision on Okinawa because of lack of other paths.
He couldn’t go back to the States and face his sister after letting her down so terribly. She’d had a hard life, particularly after the death of her first husband, and he had made that damn, stupid promise that he knew he never could have held Frank to. And now Frank was gone.
He also knew his career in the Army was over. To succeed in the Army, an officer didn’t have to be good, as much as avoid bad. Any hint of screw-up or scandal and the faceless committees that determined one’s future simply saw what was in the paperwork and axed a person’s career.
Vaughn leaned forward, elbows on the case, and put his head in his hands, as if he could press his scattered thoughts and feelings into some form of sanity and normalcy.
Off Jolo Island
The conning tower of the old diesel submarine cut through the water. Moreno shared the tight space on top with two lookouts. They had no running lights on and had to be wary of fishing boats that might be anchored for the night. At the fore and after of the top deck of the submarine were two strange contraptions shaped like large twenty-foot-high horseshoes welded to the deck upside down.
Moreno looked to his left, toward Jolo. He could see the outline of Hono Mountain silhouetted against the sky. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar. Ignoring security for the moment, he cut off the end, flicked his lighter and puffed away.
Several seconds later there was a corresponding small flicker of light, high up on the mountainside. Moreno smiled. While he smoked the cigar in his left hand, he brought the tip of the surviving fingers of his right hand to his forehead in a salute.
Hawaii
After ending his business with Orson, Royce had landed in Oahu and was helicoptered to Fort Shafter, where he entered the simulation center. He stood in the back of the room and watched as Foster brought in his team of computer experts and military liaisons. Royce was surprised that David wasn’t here. After all, his boss, and friend—insofar as one had friends within the Organization—had requested this highly unusual personal meeting. Upon entering the Sim-Center, Royce had been given a note with some coordinates on it, and right away knew where David was waiting for him—but first he had to make sure the “simulation” got off on the right foot.
Foster stood behind a podium, which had the crest for Western Command on the front. Royce had seen such briefings before. The key for Foster was to get everyone in the room, particularly the military staff, to make the transition from thinking they were playing a simulation to some semblance of belief that this was a real mission. Which, in fact, it was going to be, but no one in the room other than he and Foster knew that. In essence, Foster was the cut out to make sure Orson’s team had the military support it needed to conduct the mission.
Royce was concerned about Foster, but they had enough leverage on the computer expert to ensure his complete cooperation and discretion. Royce had no doubt that David had played Foster perfectly. David was too old a hand and too much of a professional to do anything less.
Foster read from a prepared script. “Forty-five minutes ago, Western Command headquarters received a warning for a covert operation in its theater command. This warning order was relayed to subordinate headquarters, resulting in your presence here at the operations center.” He turned to the senior officer seated in the center, front seat. “Brigadier General Slocum, Commander Special Operations, Westcom, is in charge of this mission. He will give you the mission tasking.”
Foster took a seat and the one-star general took his place. Slocum had a Special Forces combat patch sewn onto the right shoulder of his camouflage fatigues, and the Combat Infantry Badge and the Master Parachutist Badge on his chest, above his name tag. He was all business as he barked out the tasking.
“Westcom Special Operations has been ordered to conduct a direct action mission to destroy a terrorist cell on Jolo Island, the Philippines. The primary target is the elimination—” Slocum looked up from the paper. “Gentlemen, ‘elimination’ is the word used in the order. You and I need to talk in plain English. We’re going to kill this son of a bitch Rogelio Abayon, the head of the Abu Sayef.
“I’m going to say something, and I’m only going to say it once,” Slocum continued. “We know this is the Sim-Center, not the war room at headquarters. So we know this mission isn’t real. But I want every one of you to act like this is real. That flesh and blood soldiers are going to be out there putting it on the line. I hear or see any of you acting with less than your best effort, I’m going to put my boot so far up your ass, when you land, you’ll be eating kimchi in the worst hellhole I can slot you in South Korea.
“Questions?”
The room was still.
Slocum nodded. “Let’s get going. Time’s a-wasting. G-2. Briefing. Now.”
The intelligence officer stood behind the podium. Royce noted that a digital camera was aimed at the man, and he knew that the briefing was being forwarded to Orson in Okinawa, where it would be stored so it could be replayed for the team—once it was assembled.
“There’s a lot of disinformation being disseminated about the Abu Sayef,” the officer began. “Which might be part of a deliberate effort on the group’s part to keep itself shrouded in confusion. According to media reports, the Abu Sayef only came into being in 1991 when it split off from the MNLF: the Mora National Liberation Front. But classified intelligence reports indicate the opposite is true: the Abu Sayef has been in existence since the end of World War Two under the control of Rogelio Abayon, and the MNLF was actually subordinate to it for many years.
“The Abu Sayef kept a very low profile for decades, funding and supporting other groups that got more attention, such as the MNLF. The stated goal of the Abu Sayef is to establish an Iranian-style Islamic state in the islands of the southern Philippines.”
“What does Abu Sayef mean?” Slocum asked, interrupting the officer.
“Bearer of the Sword,” the officer said. “It’s only in the past ten years or so that the Abu Sayef has gotten in the news, which is a credit to Abayon’s ability to conduct covert operations and use other organizations as a cover. That changed after nine-eleven. There are credible reports of financial links between Abu Sayef and Al Qaeda. Since Islamic fundamentalism is so much in the news, it was inevitable that some word on Abu Sayef would come out, so it seems as if Abayon accepted the inevitable. Another factor could be that Abayon is getting old. He’s in his eighties, and there’s some speculation among analysts that he wants to go out—for lack of a better term—with a bang.
“The first major action direcdy linked to Sayef was in 1991 when they conducted a grenade attack that killed two foreign women suspected of being missionaries. Then, the next year, Sayef terrorists threw a bomb at a ship docked at the southern city of Zamboanga. The ship was an international floating bookstore crewed by Christian clergy. Right after that, there were a series of bombings against Roman Catholic churches throughout the Philippines. In 1993 the Sayef bombed a cathedral in Davao City and killed seven people.”
The officer checked his notes. “That’s the same year the Sayef began their campaign of kidnapping foreigners. Initially it w
as believed that they did it for the ransom, but it is more likely they did it for the notoriety. In 1995 the Abu Sayef attacked a Christian town on Mindanao, razing it to the ground and killing fifty-three civilians and soldiers.”
Royce turned as Foster entered the control room.
The scientist stared at him for several seconds, until Royce finally spoke. “I work with David.”
Foster was about to say something when the intelligence officer continued and both turned back to the operations center to listen.
“No group like this comes into being in a vacuum. This goes back hundreds and hundreds of years. Islam came to the Philippines in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. While in Indonesia and Malaysia, Muslims became a majority, in the Philippines they’ve always been a minority, about five percent of the population, concentrated in the southern islands. Catholicism is the dominant religion in the Philippines by far. After all, the Philippines were a Spanish colony from 1565 to 1898, and then we took over after the Spanish-American War. However, despite the small numbers, for centuries some islands, including Jolo, were essentially independent sultanates with a predominant Muslim population.
“It was the United States who forced them into becoming part of the rest of the country. Both before and after World War II, most of those people did not even consider themselves Filipino but rather Moros. The central government in Manila always considered the Moros a threat and has made forced resettlement of Christians into Muslim held territory a national policy, which has not pleased the Moros. As much as the central government pushed, the Muslims have reacted and pushed back.
“This came to a head in 1946 when the Philippine Republic was established and the United States relinquished control of the islands. Choices had to be made. Surprisingly, some of the elite and powerful Muslim elders actually aligned themselves with the central government and even supported the resettlement of Christians in historically Muslim territory.
“Essentially they sold out. Or they bowed to what they viewed as an inevitable reality. But not all. Not Abayon. He tried to make things work between the two sides and almost succeeded. In the sixties he was able to broker a truce between the government and the Muslim extremists, but he couldn’t keep it going. In 1968 a group of Muslim army trainees were massacred by their own Christian leaders. Then in the 1971 elections, Marcos and the ruling party gained so much power that they no longer felt they had to appease the Muslim minority. Outright war broke out between Christians and Muslims.”
The officer continued. “Marcos declared martial law in 1972. In reaction, Muslims declared themselves independent. Thousands were killed in the fighting and hundreds of thousands were displaced. Libya provided sanctuary for some of the Muslim leaders during this. But”—the officer glanced up from his notes— “Abayon never left the islands like many of his contemporary leaders in the revolt did.
“In 1976, under pressure from Libya and the OIC— the Organization of Islamic Conference, mainly made up of other Muslim countries—the Tripoli Agreement was negotiated. This brought a cease-fire and autonomy to thirteen southern provinces in the Philippines where the majority of Muslims lived.
“Of course it didn’t work out,” he continued. “The Muslims began fighting among themselves over who should control their territories. The MNLF, the BMLO—Bangsa Moro Liberation Organization—and other splinter groups fought for power. And in the background, Abayon and the Abu Sayef remained aloof from the infighting.
“Fighting between the central government and the Muslims broke out in 1977. The various Muslim groups also were fighting among themselves, which must have delighted Marcos. When Marcos fell in 1985, the new government held out the olive branch to Muslims. It seemed that everyone was tired of the fighting. A peace process was begun. But a serious schism was beginning to form between moderate Muslims and extremists. This is when the Abu Sayef began to come to the forefront, espousing jihad, violent struggle, versus the government policy of nonviolent mobilization, known as dawa.”
General Slocum stood up. “This just reflects what started happening everywhere in the world in the nineties and into the new millennium. Abayon is the head of the Abu Sayef and the group is just one of the many tentacles of this movement, just like Al Qaeda. They are a threat to our way of life, and our job is to take down one of those tentacles.”
Slocum wasn’t done. “These people use terrorism as their weapon against civilization. They took the war to us on nine-eleven. Now we’re taking the war to them. Let’s do it.”
Royce was impressed with Slocum. The general didn’t seem to be acting. He followed Foster back to his office.
“Why are we playing this game?” the scientist demanded of Royce as soon as the door was shut. “You heard that briefing. The Abu Sayef are terrorists and Abayon is their leader. We shouldn’t have to be playing this hide and seek game to—”
“Shut up,” Royce said. He realized Foster wasn’t as bright and aware as he had hoped.
Foster appeared not to hear. “This is a simulation center, not a real operations center. I can’t be held responsible for—”
Royce pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Foster. That got through, and the scientist’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes getting wide.
“David explained your situation, correct?”
Foster nodded.
“Let me explain it more clearly since you haven’t gotten the message.” Royce pressed the muzzle of the gun against Foster’s forehead. “I don’t give a shit about your job at the NSA. Or the blackmail from college. You pull your weight here, get the team the support it needs, do what I tell you to do, or else I kill you. Is that clear?”
Foster swallowed hard. He tried to nod, then realized the cold steel against his forehead precluded that. “Yes,” he managed to get out.
Jolo Island
Abayon smiled for a moment, but it passed quickly as the cigarette smoke reached his lungs and he doubled over in his chair, hacking and coughing. He cursed as he stubbed out the cigarette on the armrest of his wheelchair. This one vice had been taken from him by the frailties of his aging body.
He watched the small dot of light that represented Moreno move through the strait between Jolo and Pata islands into the open sea until it disappeared around the headland. Then he wheeled himself inside the complex, the camouflaged steel door sliding down behind him. He rolled down the corridor, the only sound the rhythmic hiss of air being moved through the large pipes bolted to the ceiling. It was a sound he had lived with for many decades so it went unnoticed. Somewhere in the distance another steel door clanged shut.
Abayon reached an elevator. The doors slid open and he rolled inside. Reaching up, he could just barely reach the buttons. They had faded Japanese writing next to them. He punched the one for the lowest level of the complex. With a slight jerk, the old elevator slowly began descending into the bowels of Hono Mountain. It took over two minutes for him to get to the level he desired.
The doors opened, presenting him with two of his men armed with submachine guns standing in a small anteroom. They snapped to attention upon recognizing him. One turned to the control mechanism for the door behind them, sliding a large metal key into one of the slots. Abayon wheeled to the other side of the door, pulled out his own version of the large key and slid it into the slot on that side.
“On three,” Abayon said. “One, two, three.” They turned their keys in unison.
With a squeal of reluctance, the heavy steel door began to rumble open. Whatever was on the other side was bathed in darkness. When the doors stopped moving, Abayon rolled himself into the darkness. He paused as the door shut behind him. Then he reached out to his right, his hand finding the familiar switch. He threw it and large lights spaced along the ceiling of the huge tunnel he was in came on.
The light was reflected back many times as it struck six-foot-high piles of gold bullion stacked on either side of the entire eighty-foot length of the tunnel.
And this was just the b
eginning of what was hidden here. A steel door at the far end of the tunnel beckoned, and Abayon rolled his wheelchair toward it. It was the front end of an air lock. The chamber beyond was climate controlled, with three backup generators on constant standby to ensure that the system never failed. Abayon went past the gold without a glance at it. After decades of seeing it, the yellow metal had lost its hold on him.
However, what lay beyond the air lock was a different story. Abayon opened the closest door and entered the lock. He impatiently waited as the humidity and temperature were brought in line with the chamber beyond. The red light on the door turned to green, and Abayon leaned forward in the chair, turning the wheel that unlatched the door. It swung open and he pushed himself inside, turning on the lights as he did.
It was the museum a pack rat might put together—a pack rat with exquisite taste and unlimited reach. Paintings lined the walls, frame-to-frame, competing for space. Statues and sculptures were lined shoulder-to-shoulder. Tables covered with rare artifacts were in front of the statues. It was a treasure that matched in potential wealth the bullion in the preceding chamber. It was actually more valuable, though, in emotional terms, because almost every piece of art in the room was ancient and irreplaceable, and long believed lost during the mayhem of the Second World War as the Rising Sun spread across the western Pacific Rim.
There were artifacts in this chamber from every country the Japanese had invaded. This was the result of the rape of those cultures under the guise of the Golden Lily Project, a most misleading name. In several places there were gaps on the wall and floor, where some of the treasure had recently been removed. A small but significant portion.
There was something else in the chamber. Bodies. Dozens of them. Mummified in the room’s dry air. Still garbed in their Imperial Army uniforms. Abayon moved into the room until he was in front of one of the bodies. The rank insignia indicated he was a colonel. A sword was still buckled around his waist. A faded red gash across his throat indicated how he had died.
