Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

  “Let him eat,” a voice said.

  “I think he’s telling the truth,” another spoke.

  “Agree, but keep him tied up.”

  Abe heard the new voices. They were Americans.

  What were Americans doing kidnapping him from his main battle tank production plant on Mindanao? The Americans, he knew, had authorized and paid for much of the construction.

  At least that’s what Mr. Takishi had told him.

  Believing that they had stumbled onto something significant, Ramsey had Jones set up the satellite communications antenna, so that he could call in the information to Okinawa. They only had one satellite radio remaining, as the other was packed in Ron Peterson’s rucksack. Watching Jones play with the antenna brought images of Peterson rushing back through his mind, but he stopped the onslaught, erecting a barrier in his mind, telling himself, Not now, save it for later.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jones said in his distinct Boston accent, toying with the radio and repositioning the antenna. What had been a consistently reliable means of communication failed him for the first time. It was not that he didn’t expect it to happen, because it always did; but the timing could not have been worse. Ramsey thought it might be something about their new position, but Jones kept insisting that everything was functioning properly until he remembered that Abe had fallen on him. Quietly he looked at the bound and blindfolded man, wanting to be mad, but knew it was not his fault. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What do you think it is?” Ramsey asked.

  “Don’t know. I’m getting power, but I can’t reach anybody. Last time I used it was to keep comms with your fox mike when you captured this guy,” Jones said, pointing at the captive and referring to standard “frequency modulation” radio communications. With a flip of a switch, the tactical satellite radio was capable of performing routine FM short-distance communications or long-range satellite communications.

  “When he fell on me, I landed on my ruck. Sounded like the radio took the blow, but I’m getting a signal. Can’t figure it out. Son of a bitch!” Jones exclaimed, pained at the failure of his equipment.

  Sending his men to perimeter positions in the triple-canopy jungle, Ramsey began to think of a way to communicate.

  There had to be a way.

  CHAPTER 14

  Palau, South Pacific Ocean

  Matt was surprised first when he heard the landing gear of the aircraft come down. He was expecting another water landing. Second, he was surprised at how soon the landing gear had been extended—maybe three hours.

  The pearl-handled-revolver man had mentioned something about needing to refuel, so Matt surmised that was why they had landed. Then, inspecting “the fleet.” What fleet?

  During the flight, Matt had begun to have serious reservations about his decision. He was a passionate, driven decision maker, yet a calculating man. Most importantly, perhaps, everyone worked for someone, and he had a handler who was no doubt furious right about now.

  For certain, he had little to no chance of making contact after his satellite communications had been disabled. Most likely, his cell phone would not work until he got to Davao City.

  But Matt had sensed that they were flying east. They had taken off straight out of the bay, he was sure of that much, and he had felt very little banking in one direction or another until he felt the landing gear deploy.

  He gathered himself and his equipment as they were leveling off for the landing, which came suddenly with a loud report and bounce. Obviously the pilot was more adept at water landings than runway approaches.

  As the aircraft taxied and began to slow, Matt worked his way toward the cargo door, which he opened and leapt from. He conducted a combat roll as if he were performing a parachute landing fall. The concrete runway smacked his rib cage, and his head bounced slightly off the tarmac.

  He stood and quickly assessed his surroundings, as the plane braked about fifty meters away, and began running.

  He saw a warehouse, a fuel pump, and what looked like an old dump truck etched against the night sky. There appeared to be a single Gulfstream jet parked on the tarmac at the terminal. He was moving too fast to determine the origin of the Gulfstream, but noticed that on either side of the runway was low brush, such as he had just seen near the beach in the Philippines.

  Could they have taken the long way around to Davao? He didn’t think so.

  Guam? Too far; they could not have made it in under three hours.

  Luzon? He didn’t believe that option either, as they had not banked hard enough.

  He heard a voice call out to him in Japanese.

  “Yamete!” Stop.

  Opening the cargo door while the plane was moving had obviously triggered an alarm in the cockpit, but he had chosen getting out over being cornered in the airplane.

  He ran across the runway and threw his bag over the chain-link fence that abutted the length of the airfield. He heard several shots above the din of the propellers, and his luck didn’t hold.

  As he flipped over the fence, a bullet ricocheted off the top post and grazed his shoulder. A few centimeters to the right, and the lead would have caught him square in the face.

  Despite the pain, he kept moving into what he thought looked like scrub oaks. Unfortunately, they weren’t large enough to provide cover or sufficiently conceal his movement. Nonetheless, no more shots came close, and he continued to run like a tailback with no blockers, ducking, weaving, spinning, and lunging.

  His plan was first to survive … then cycle back and ask some questions of whomever he found.

  He found a dirt road, which he followed to its end, then sprinted into the woods, which were again sparsely populated with scrub oaks. Soon he found himself standing on a blacktop road from which he could see the faint outline of lights to the north. He jogged in the direction of the lights and rounded a bend, stopping when he saw buildings less than a half a kilometer away.

  There was something familiar about this place; either that, or he was experiencing déjà vu, which, with his wound clearly more serious than he originally thought, was a possibility. But as he studied the terrain and the buildings, he quickly recognized that he was on the island of Palau, about nine hundred kilometers due east of Mindanao.

  Further, he knew that he was on the road to the Airai View Hotel, where American diplomats sometimes lay over on their way to Australia or other Pacific Rim nations. Matt recognized the road and the bright lights from the hotel because he had on occasion used a safe house in the small village near the airport.

  He remembered that the contact’s name was Pino, and he moved in the direction of the swank resort hotel, despite the fact that his bleeding was worsening, he smelled like a stable hand, looked like an assassin, and clutched the dog tags of a dead American soldier in his right hand.

  If he could find Pino, he could make contact with his handler and alert him to everything he had witnessed in Mindanao.

  Even though he wasn’t exactly sure what he had seen.

  CHAPTER 15

  As Taiku Takishi stood at the fence line where the stowaway had climbed over, the spot of damp blood he could see on the top rail convinced him that one of the four bullets he had fired had wounded the fleeing man.

  Who was it? Was it just some local seeking a better life outside of Cateel Bay, or was the man in some fashion connected to the two security breaches at the plant? Although Takishi’s instincts told him that the man was not some ordinary stowaway, he had business to do and time lines to keep.

  He retrieved his satellite phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

  “Do you have anyone snooping around Mindanao?”

  “Well, hello, to you, also,” the voice replied.

  “Answer my question, please, because we’ve had two breaches in one day, and I just had an uninvited passenger on my airplane,” Takishi said. He turned and watched the refueling truck pull up to his Shin Meiwa. Next to his aircraft he saw two men walking around a U.S. government Gulfstre
am jet.

  “Don’t get terse with me, Charlie. We’ve given you everything you’ve asked for. That was Matt Garrett gathering frequent flyer miles with you.”

  Garrett? That’s not possible.

  “Slippery little bastard,” Takishi said. He did a superb job of hiding his surprise … and shock.

  “I told you. The real question is, what did he see?”

  That was tricky territory for Takishi. First, he didn’t know what Garrett had seen, but he had definitely seen something. And if he’d caught sight of, for example, the main battle tanks on the railhead, then there were problems. The Rolling Stones had been led to believe that they had purchased a small-arms-manufacturing facility.

  They didn’t know that Takishi and Prime Minister Mizuzawa had taken the funds and, with true Japanese efficiency, created the facilities to make tanks and helicopters. That would, Takishi determined, come as a bit of a surprise to his musician buddies.

  “All I know is he saw the inside of my airplane, if it was Garrett,” Takishi said. They’ll know soon enough what he saw, he determined.

  “Take it however you wish, but we are in the final stages, and we need your action to happen exactly as discussed. Things are still a bit iffy on this end. Momentum seems to be gathering, and unless you are successful, the train might run away, as they say.”

  “Don’t worry about my end of the deal.” Takishi laughed. “If Garrett saw anything, he’s probably confused as hell anyway. I’ve got soldiers down there guarding the plant and even a couple of armored vehicles.” Perfect, Takishi thought.

  “Okay, Takishi. Now let’s get off this phone. Any further questions?”

  “We are getting satisfaction. Good-bye.”

  Takishi flipped his phone shut and continued to watch the men conducting a preflight inspection of the Gulfstream. It appeared that Keith Richards was on schedule. But if Matt Garrett was indeed on my airplane, what should I do, he wondered? Stay or go? Is Garrett a threat to me?

  Possibly. Do I have anyone on this island who can kill Garrett?

  Of course.

  Over the course of the past two years, he had worked in clandestine fashion with Keith Richards, the only member of the Rolling Stones to span two administrations. The money had begun flowing nearly a year ago, money Takishi promptly began funneling to Talbosa and his loose band of Muslim insurgents.

  Better than Iran-Contra! Takishi thought. At least the Contras were on the American side. The Rolling Stones were funding the Abu Sayyaf to start a war in the Philippines so the Americans could fight there instead of in Iraq.

  “Makes sense to me.” Takishi chuckled.

  The smile left his face as he thought of Garrett and whom he needed to call. Yes, he would take his chances and let Keith deal with Garrett while he got on with orchestrating the big picture.

  Anyway, perhaps he had mortally wounded Garrett.

  CHAPTER 16

  Matt knocked on the wood door of the small A-frame house that served as a manager’s residence on-site at the Airai View Hotel. He heard heavy footfalls and the sliding of a chain against metal.

  A pistol poked through the gap in the door as a voice said, “You rang?”

  “Pino, it’s Matt Garrett. Put down the pistol.”

  “I could shoot you and have you stuffed like one of those bears,” Pino said, laughing as he opened the door. Matt watched him as he flipped a cell phone shut and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “I wouldn’t be too comfortable to lie on,” Matt said. “And the thought of your fat ass humping some chick on my back makes me want to puke.”

  “Now that you have exchanged proper bona fides, I will let you in.” Pino laughed again. He was a short man, nearly as tall as he was wide. Thick black hair was cut just above his ears, which were small compared to his rotund face. “Cherubic” wasn’t necessarily the right word, but it was close enough.

  They hugged, and Pino backed away.

  “You’re shot?”

  “Yes. Just a nick, though,” Matt said, entering the small residence. “Is the missus home?”

  “No, she’s working the floor tonight. Do you need a doctor?”

  “I might,” he said absently, touching his wound. “There are Americans here tonight, right?” He guessed that the Gulfstream was an official U.S. government aircraft. Palau had become a U.S. protectorate after World War II, and the American government had just signed up for another fifty years of providing for its defense, whatever that might entail.

  All Matt had seen were high-ranking government officials using the island and the hotel as a stopover point for long hauls to points west.

  “Yes, Rathburn’s here. Are you here to see him?”

  “Yes,” Matt said, searching his mind for the name Rathburn. He thought he might be in the Depart-ment of Defense. “I need to see him tonight if possible.”

  Pino looked at him with suspicious eyes.

  “Here, have a seat,” the Palauan said. Pino’s house was an odd mixture of rattan island furniture, photos of high-ranking U.S. officials hanging on the walls, and furniture that looked as if he had purchased it from a 1970s Sears and Roebuck catalog. Lived in, was how Matt thought of it.

  Matt sat in an old corduroy La-Z-Boy recliner while Pino took a bottle of astringent and a damp paper towel to the open wound on Matt’s shoulder.

  “Son of a bitch.” Matt grimaced at the stinging.

  “This is more than a graze, Matt. I need to call the U.S. doctor. Is it okay?”

  Matt looked at his arm, and said, “Call Rathburn’s assistant and get him over here. Then we can talk about the doctor.”

  Pino looked at Matt.

  “You have no idea who Rathburn is, do you?”

  “Not a clue. Defense?” Matt offered.

  “Yes, and his assistant is a ‘she,’ not a ‘he.’”

  “Whatever, I need to talk to her. My comms are broke. I’ve got some huge shit to give her.”

  Pino sat across from Matt on the sofa, and said, “I’ll call her if you let me get the doctor.”

  “Okay, whatever. Get the damn doctor. Hang it on your Web site that I’m here. Whatever. Just get me Rathburn or his assistant.”

  “Hey, douche bag, you came to me for help, remember?”

  Matt felt himself fading a bit. Between not sleeping for two full days and the loss of blood, he knew that he needed help.

  As his mind spiraled, his last thoughts were that there were others that needed aid more than he; Peterson, for example. While it was too late for the dead Special Forces officer, Matt thought, the rest of his team desperately needed some assistance.

  Matt’s mind spun into sleep, pulling with it the soft music emanating from Pino’s stereo. “I can’t get no sat-is-fac-tion …”

  CHAPTER 17

  “How long has he been out?” Meredith Morris asked the doctor.

  “About an hour,” he said. “I gave him four full IVs, cleaned his wound, and pumped some antibiotics in him. That he lasted this long is pretty amazing.”

  Meredith looked at the doctor, and said, “I’ve got it from here, thank you.”

  Understanding his cue to depart, the doctor walked out of Pino’s guest bedroom and into the night.

  Meredith sat in the chair next to the bed, wondering about this man, whom she had only read about. She looked at her watch; it was past midnight. Pino had summoned her from her suite in the hotel and she had taken nearly an hour to get dressed and walk the half kilometer to the house.

  She studied Matt’s strong jaw line, tousled brown hair, and rhythmically rising chest. The wound was on his left shoulder just above the clavicle through the trapezoid, she presumed. It appeared to her that the doctor had done a tidy job of patching the bullet hole and that the CIA agent would be okay with some rest.

  When Meredith thought she heard Matt mouth a word or two, she leaned forward.

  “If I’m dead, are you one of the seventy-two virgins?”

  Meredith, momentarily taken aback,
laughed, and said, “No, but I am a Virginian.”

  “Even better,” Matt replied. “Are there seven-one others?”

  “Yes, but I think I’m quite enough for you right now, Mr. Garrett.”

  “Well, with a blond Virginian as my gatekeeper, I must be doing something right.”

  Meredith smiled. “Actually, to be lying here in fat Pino’s sweaty bed sheets with your shoulder shot up is not an indicator of your doing something right.”

  “Ah, man, did you have to put it that way?” Matt chuckled. “I mean, I’m okay with the gunshot wound, but Pino’s sweaty sheets, who knows what lurks beneath?”

  Matt opened his eyes again and, though a bit hazy, saw a young Meg Ryan facsimile staring back at him. She was wearing a blue cotton shirt and light blue denim jeans.

  Apparently Meredith saw him appraising her attire and said, “You woke me from a restful sleep. You okay to talk?”

  “I need to talk,” Matt said, sitting up. “But I want to get out of this bed first.”

  Pino entered the room, carrying a large pitcher of water.

  “Hey, bro, doctor said no getting up. Just no wet dreams in the sheets, okay?”

  “Pino, these sheets are so stiff and nasty I could use them as a body armor,” Matt countered.

  “Listen, brother, I washed those sheets two months ago. They are fine.”

  “I’m getting up,” Matt said.

  And he did. He sat up and collected his thoughts, then fished a clean Underarmour T-shirt from his bag. As he wrestled it over his head, Meredith held one sleeve for him. Grimacing, he pushed his arm through the hole, then stood and walked from the guest room into the family room, where he sat back in the recliner.

  He watched Meredith follow him. She had a nice figure and was at least five and half feet tall. Very attractive, he thought. It had been a month or two since he’d seen a real, live American beauty up close. Sure, he loved Asian women, but there was no replacement for a girl-next-door American knockout such as was standing in front of him right now.