Section 8

by Bob Mayer

  Abayon liked the concept of something he couldn’t conceptualize. It was a spiritual existence, not a physical one. There would be a birth of a soul from his own soul. And that new soul would reap the benefits of the type of life one had lived on Earth. According to his interpretation of the Koran, Heaven and Hell existed in the same place but on a different dimension. It was all relative, depending on what one could perceive and one’s state upon death.

  Abayon planned for his state upon death to be one of equilibrium. He had suffered much in life and spent decades building himself up to a position of power in order to equal out the scales. It had required tremendous patience, the need to hold back when there was a burning desire to strike out against his enemies and those who had done him tremendous wrongs over the years.

  There was evil in the world. The evil of the material world. And looming behind that evil was the United States and its corrupting influence. In that, he agreed with Al Qaeda and the other extremist Islamic groups. But Abayon sensed something more. A power behind the power. Bigger than even the United States. He had seen and heard and interpreted too many unsettling things over the course of his life. He had heard whispers of the Organization. Of its alignment of the world and history to benefit the few at the expense of the many.

  Finding this complex and its contents had been disturbing enough so many years ago. But it had only been the first of several events that changed his view on the world, just as his learning of Islam had changed his view of the afterlife.

  A guard wheeled Abayon from the medical center to his office. Abayon checked the in-box, signing off on the minor details that kept the Abu Sayef running its day-to-day operations. He smiled as he thought that it was not much different running a guerrilla organization than a corporation.

  Okinawa

  Wheels up. Vaughn felt the plane depart from the runway. A small pile of equipment was tied down on the ramp: two parachutes, night vision goggles, and helmets. He loosened the straps and removed one of them.

  “I like to pack my own,” Tai said as she grabbed the other one.

  “I do too,” Vaughn said, but they both knew that was impractical in the back of the aircraft. They checked the rigging on the outside as best they could. Everything appeared to be in order.

  Vaughn turned to the crew chief, the only other occupant of the cargo bay. “How long until the drop?”

  The crew chief spoke into his headset, listened and then turned to Vaughn and Tai. ‘Two hours, twenty-six minutes.”

  Over the Pacific

  Everyone else appeared to be asleep to David. They were several hours out of Hawaii, and looking out the window, all he could see in the moonlight was the ocean far below. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his satellite phone, then hooked his PDA to the phone. He brought up a small keyboard display on the PDA, held the stylus over it, and began to enter a text message:

  ROYCE

  THERE WERE SOME THINGS ABOUT THE ORGANIZATION WE NEVER TALKED ABOUT. I AM NOT SURE IF

  David paused, the words reflected back at him. He smiled. He still wasn’t sure whether he should write and send this message to his old friend. A lifetime of lies and deceptions had wormed its way so deeply into his mind, he wasn’t sure anymore what was the right thing to do. A harsh lesson he had learned early in his career in covert operations was that sometimes ignorance was indeed bliss.

  He leaned his head back on the seat, the message incomplete, and closed his eyes. Within minutes he had joined the other retirees in slumber.

  Jolo Island

  Abayon paused in his paperwork when there was a knock on the steel door, a dull thud, repeated in a pattern he recognized. He pressed the release for the heavy door and it swung outward.

  A young Filipino woman who had just passed her twenty-second birthday stood in the entranceway. “Come in, Fatima,” he called out to his goddaughter.

  She smiled as she walked toward him, and Abayon felt some of the weight that had been pressing down on him lighten. It was always a pleasure when Moreno’s granddaughter visited him. Even if it involved business. She was the light he was leaving behind to shine for the Abu Sayef.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  There was an old, overstuffed chair set against the wall about four meters from Abayon’s desk. Visitors often glanced at it strangely, since it seemed inappropriate for both the office and the occupant. But it was Fatima’s chair, one she had occupied as a child in Moreno’s home when his wife—Fatima’s mother— was still alive. When Moreno’s wife died, he’d burned the house down in his grief, but Abayon, anticipating his friend’s strong reaction, had had the chair removed and brought here.

  Now, Fatima settled into it and tucked her legs up beneath herself. She looked small and childish, but Abayon had long ago seen past the outer facade. She was brilliant, and as tough-minded as her father. For years Abayon had watched the younger ranks of the Abu Sayef for someone who might take his place. It took him a while to accept that Fatima was the most qualified, and the one he most trusted with his legacy.

  He knew that announcing a woman as his heir would not go over well with most of the members of the Abu Sayef, but he didn’t care. She was the best person, and would have to make her own way. It would not be easy, but he felt she was up to it. And he knew the power struggle would make her stronger in the long run, and that he was leaving her a powerful legacy.

  “My father is gone,” Fatima said.

  Abayon nodded.

  “Will he return?”

  Abayon did not hesitate in answering. “It is not likely.”

  Fatima slowly nodded. “I could tell by the way he said good-bye.”

  “He is going to strike a great blow for our cause.”

  “And Ruiz?”

  Abayon liked that Fatima wasted no time on emotional subjects. He could tell by the dark pockets under her eyes that she had probably spent the entire night crying over the departure of her father, but she was not going to bring it up now.

  “Ruiz is in Hong Kong,” he said.

  “With some of the treasure from the vault.” It was not inflected as a question, but he answered anyway.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  ‘To auction it.”

  “Do we need the money?”

  “The cause always needs money. Whatever he can get for the objects he took, however, will not come to us, but rather to our brethren in other countries.”

  “Al Qaeda.”

  Abayon nodded. “And others.”

  Fatima considered that. “It is dangerous.”

  “Yes, it is,” Abayon said. “However, it is better that some other group keep the forefront in this war than us, because whoever is in the forefront will take the most casualties.”

  “The Bali bombing,” Fatima said.

  “That’s one example.”

  She crossed her arms and regarded her godfather. “There’s something more going on than what you’re telling me.”

  Abayon tried to hide his smile. She was indeed the one who should take his place. “Yes, there is.”

  “And what is it?”

  He didn’t have to try to hide his smile anymore, because it was gone. “I don’t know exactiy.” He sighed. “People think there is a war between Islam and Christianity. I do not look at it that way. I have known, and fought beside, many Christians who were good people. And I have met some very bad people who were Muslims. Islam and Christianity have the same roots, just different paths from those roots.” He shook his head. “No, the war is between the haves and the have-nots. Between those who control the world’s economy and those who are controlled by it.”

  “Between the established nations and the third world,” Fatima said.

  Abayon nodded once more. “Yes, except the gap is getting wider instead of narrower. The western world, particularly the United States, is so focused on itself that it fails to even acknowledge what is going on in the rest of the world.”

  “Unless made to.” />
  Yes,” Abayon allowed. “That is what nine-eleven was. A wake-up call.”

  “But the United States attacked Afghanistan and Iraq. I do not see how that was good for the third world.”

  “It got attention, and everyone did not react as the Americans. Even now there is a backlash in that country over Iraq. And when I say ‘western world,’ that isn’t quite accurate. Perhaps the better term is ‘industrialized world.’ For certainly Japan, and to an extent Korea, are part of this. It is those countries that consume at the expense of the rest of the world. And now China.”

  “There are so many countries like that, though,” Fa- tima pointed out

  “Many countries, but...” Abayon lapsed into silence.

  Fatima waited for a little while before speaking. “But... ?”

  “They are connected at some very high level, some secret level,” Abayon said.

  “How do you know this?”

  “The gold and art that was hidden here. Most think it was just the Japanese. The Golden Lily project. But I heard something a long time ago that I’ve often thought about.”

  “And that is?”

  Abayon felt old and tired. He did not want to tell this story but knew he had to. Fatima needed to know it if she were to make the right choices after he was gone. And with what he had planned shortly, she would soon be high on the target list from his known and unknown enemies.

  “You know my wife and I were captured by the Japanese during the war. What you—and everyone except your father—do not know, is what happened to us. How my wife really died. And no one, not even your father, knows what I learned from an American I met during my captivity.”

  “An American?” Fatima was confused. “But you were sent to Manchuria, to ...” She paused, unwilling to say the name.

  “Unit 731,” Abayon said.

  “I have never heard of any Americans being sent there.”

  “A handful were,” Abayon said. “A special handful. What I am going to tell is part my story and part his story, so please bear with me.”

  Fatima nodded. “Yes, Godfather.”

  Abayon looked around. “Take me up to the observation platform. I’ll tell you there.”

  Fatima got up and went behind the wheelchair. She pushed it to the door, opened it, pushed him through, and shut it behind her. Then she began the long journey to the platform, pushing Abayon in front of her.

  Over the Western Pacific

  “Thirty minutes,” the crew chief yelled into Vaughn’s ear.

  He acknowledged the time warning and glanced across at Tai. She was lying on the red web seat on the other side of the plane, eyes closed. He doubted, though, that she was sleeping. No matter how many jumps one had, there was always a sense of anxiety.

  Vaughn went over and tapped her on the shoulder. “Thirty minutes. Let’s rig.”

  Over the Mid-Pacific

  David’s eyes snapped open as the screech of an alarm bell resounded through the interior of the plane. Oxygen masks dropped from the overhead, dangling on their clear tubes. Instinctively, he reached for the mask, then paused. He could see the other passengers grabbing the masks and slipping them over their heads.

  David’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. Nothing seemed amiss. He took a deep breath and was rewarded with lungs full of oxygen. The alarm was still clanging but there was no other sign that anything was wrong. The plane was flying straight and level.

  The man to David’s left, across the aisle, slumped forward, head bouncing off the back of the chair in front of him. Within seconds all the other passengers were also unconscious. David reached out, took the mask that hung in front of him and stared at it. He was tempted to take a sniff, but didn’t know how powerful the knockout gas flowing through the plane’s backup air system was.

  The pilots. David unbuckled his seat belt, made his way forward and knocked on the metal door separating the passengers from crew. He waited a few seconds, the moments weighing heavily on him, then knocked again, harder. Then he pounded, slamming his fists against the unyielding metal.

  “Stop.” David said the word out loud to make it very clear to himself. He did as he ordered himself. He slowly turned, went to the nearest person and checked his pulse. Still breathing, albeit very slowly. He nodded. It made sense. They would be killed when the plane crashed. On the very slim chance that a body was recovered, cause of death would be crash trauma. A smart plan.

  There was no retirement. There was only oblivion. He had suspected as much. In fact, he now realized he’d known this was coming. It was the logical solution. Everyone on this plane was a loose end. And the Organization had never tolerated loose ends. Something else also struck him with startling clarity. There was no way the Organization was going to put this many of its members together and allow them to swap their stories, even it was on some remote island in the far Pacific. Pieces could be put together that were never meant to be put together.

  David slowly made his way down the passenger compartment, searching for a tool to use to try to breach the door to the pilot’s compartment. Since nine-eleven, planes had been hardened to make getting into that compartment nearly impossible. He held on to the word “nearly”—there was always a way around things.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jolo Island, Philippines

  “It was just five months after the American disaster at Pearl Harbor,” Abayon said. He and Fatima were near the top of Hono Mountain, in the same place where Abayon had watched the failed American raid to rescue the hostages just days before. “Smoke was still rising from some of the ships sunk in Pearl Harbor, and oil has been leaking out of some of the hulks to this very day.

  “The Rising Sun of Japan seemed to be spreading without check throughout the western Pacific Rim. At least, so it appeared to all of us back then. The day after the assault on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese launched attacks on the Philippines in preparation for invasion. Despite having had over fourteen hours of warning about what had happened at Pearl Harbor, the great Douglas MacArthur, the overall commander here in the Philippines, did not have his forces on alert, and most of his planes were destroyed on the ground, lined up at the airfields around the islands.

  “It got worse. On the tenth of December, 1941, the pride of the British Pacific fleet, the battleship Prince of Wales and the battle cruiser Repulse, were sunk by Japanese torpedo planes. It was a stunning defeat for the British, who had always looked down on the Japanese as an inferior race and not a foe worthy of serious consideration. That loss would soon be followed by another even more devastating blow.

  “Singapore was considered by the British to be their Gibraltar in the Far East. Unfortunately for the British, and fortunately for the inferior Japanese, most of the defenses were oriented toward the ocean, where the British naturally assumed the attack would come. They were shocked when the Japanese landed on the Malay Peninsula and fought through swamp and jungle toward the city. Despite being outnumbered by the British almost two to one, the Japanese rapidly advanced. They were under the command of General Tomoyuki Yamashita, who, as you know, would later be in command of the occupation of the Philippines.”

  Abayon was looking out to sea. The lights of a few anchored fishing vessels were visible, but otherwise there was no sign of civilization. He continued his story.

  “The Japanese advance was swift and brutal. No prisoners were taken. Wounded men were executed. Locals who assisted the British were also killed. On February the eighth, 1942, the Japanese captured Singapore, taking over one-hundred-thousand Allied troops prisoner. A tenth of those would later die building the Burma-Thailand railway.

  “The beginning of 1942 was a dark time for the Allies in the Pacific. The Japanese seemed invincible. Hong Kong had fallen. Darwin was bombed. China, Burma, Borneo—the list of places the Japanese were advancing through was almost endless. And with those advancing troops came the Kempetai, the secret police, and within the Kempetai an even more secret unit that began the systematic looting of the c
onquered lands.”

  “Golden Lily,” Fatima said.

  “Yes,” Abayon said. “We will get back to that. But let me continue so you understand as much of the big picture as I do. In the United States, morale was at an all-time low. President Roosevelt ordered his Joint Chiefs of Staff to come up with something to hit back at the Japanese homeland. It was a daunting proposition, given the vast width of the Pacific Ocean. The plan that was developed was daring: launch medium bombers off an aircraft carrier.

  “Sixteen B-25 Mitchell bombers were loaded on board the USS Hornet. The crews of the bombers, despite having spent weeks practicing short takeoffs, did not know their target or mission as they boarded the carrier. The Americans used to be very good at keeping secrets, a skill they’ve lost to a large degree since then. The ship set sail from California and headed west.

  “Also on board the ship were three men who were neither part of the flight crews or the ship’s complement. They had orders signed by General Marshall himself . . . very strange orders that simply directed any U.S. Military officer who was shown the orders to do as the bearer instructed.”

  Fatima stirred as if to say something, but Abayon continued without acknowledging her.

  “I am sure Colonel Doolitde, the commander of the bomber group, was none too happy to have these orders shoved in his face shortly after the fleet took sail. But Doolittle was a good officer and he would do as ordered.

  “The launch was set for April nineteenth, when the Hornet would be around five hundred miles from the Japanese islands. The planes would fly to their targets, drop their bombs, then continue onward to land in China. That plan, as with most military plans, went out the window on the eighteenth of April when one of the escort ships was spotted by a Japanese picket boat. The Japanese boat was sunk, but it was assumed it had gotten a warning message out.