Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 (84 page)

           
McLanahan felt a tingle over his
entire body when he heard the news—no matter how horrible war was, if there had
to be a war, then news of success on the battlefield was always welcome. “So
when do we go back out?”

           
“We may be called in for air
operations over Zamboanga and Puerto Princesa,” Elliott replied, “but with only
two or three destroyers left for Chinese air defense and fighter control, the
bombers should have free rein over
Mindanao
.
We should be able to bring tankers closer to Mindanao, so we can set up real
fighter combat air patrols for the bombers and Navy ships—and if that’s true,
they won’t need Megafortress escort bombers anymore. I’m sure they won’t use
B-2s either, now that most of their big warships and the
Mount
Apo
radar site have been destroyed. HAWC might
be out of the battle, I think.

           
“The Army’s Twenty-fifth Infantry
Division might try an invasion to
Davao
in order to keep the Chinese ground troops
from massing on
Mindanao
,” Elliott added. “But the Chinese Navy got
a pretty good thrashing last night, and they know we can do it again—the second
round of Tomahawk and bomber attacks began shortly after the first strike
package withdrew, and initial indications look like they encountered virtually
no resistance even in daylight hours. I hope the politicians in
Washington
and
Beijing
get their acts together and call a halt to
this thing right
now. ”

           
That, Patrick McLanahan agreed, was
every warrior’s silent prayer—go and get ready to fight, but hope like hell
they don’t have to.

Malacanang Presidential
Palace,
Manila
Republic
of the
Philippines

           
The door to the rooftop helicopter
landing pad burst open, and First Vice President Daniel Teguina, surrounded by
no fewer than ten bodyguards, rushed through the doorway. While six soldiers
spread out to cover each side of the pad, the other four kept Teguina hidden
from view, M16 rifles at the ready.

           
Despite his formidable protection,
Teguina looked like the animal being hunted—which in effect he was. He carried
with him a suitcase filled with American currency, Filipino bearer bonds, gold
bullion, and other various treasures he could find in Arturo Mikaso’s vaults
and in government museums—that would help establish him in some Southeast Asia
country loyal to China—or perhaps Pakistan, Madagascar, or Sri Lanka—and it
would ensure his safety for several years until he thought it safe to return to
the Philippines.

           
A few moments later, a low-flying
helicopter could be heard in the distance, swooping out from the south and
approaching the palace fast. Teguina was about to rise to his feet in the
doorway when automatic gunfire rang out. Teguina cried out, clutching the
suitcase, as a bodyguard leaped on top of him to cover him from the assassin’s
bullets—or at least that was what Teguina thought, until he heard the
bodyguard’s animal-like cry of pain and felt warm blood seep over his neck and
chest.

           
The gunfire abruptly stopped, and
someone lifted the bodyguard’s bleeding body free of the ex-President of the
Philippines
. Teguina turned and was going to rush back
down the stairs, but collided into a soldier wearing the dark- green jungle
fatigues favored by Jose Samar’s Commonwealth Defense Forces.

           
“But your helicopter is just
arriving, Mr. President,” he heard a voice say. He turned and found General
Jose Trujillo Samar himself standing before him. His face and shoulders were
still heavily bandaged, and the hair had not started to grow back on his
eyebrows or eyelids yet, giving him a horrifying specterlike appearance. He
wore jungle fatigues and carried an American-made .45-caliber automatic pistol
in his holster, but it was not drawn. Teguina could see all but two of his
bodyguards dead on the roof; the rest were on their knees with their hands on
top of their heads.

           
Teguina let the suitcase fall, both
as a show of defiance, because he felt guilty by having it in his possession,
and because he suddenly did not have the strength to hold it. He placed his
hands casually behind his back where
Samar
would
not see them shake, and sneered, “I see your time with your American friends
has not helped to improve your looks,
Samar
.”

           
“Nor has your time with your Chinese
friends improved your integrity,”
Samar
said.
“Where are they, by the way? We saw very few in the city today.”

           
“I no longer need the Chinese to
help me secure my country,” Teguina said. “Your revolution has failed, your
followers have been destroyed, your troops have been slaughtered. The people
know that I am their President—”

           
“The people now know that you are a
liar, a thief, and a traitor,”
Samar
said
casually. He motioned to a man standing behind him, who was photographing the
whole scene with a professional-quality videotape camera. A soldier carried the
suitcase over to him and opened it so they could photograph its contents; then
the cameraman swung it back and took pictures of Teguina’s shocked,
disbelieving expression. “You will be taken into custody and tried by the
Parliament and the Supreme Court. I hope they vote to execute you.”

           
“And do you expect to preside over
the trial yourself?” Teguina asked mockingly. “You are hated in this country.
The people blame you for all that has happened. You as President of the
Philippines
will ensure civil unrest and political
hatred for the next generation—you will tear this country apart far worse than
I ever could. If I am sentenced to die on the gallows of Marikina Cathedral, I
will certainly see you there beside me.”

           
“I will let the people and the
Parliament decide that,”
Samar
said.
“And I will not preside over your trial—the President will.”

           
Teguina’s smile vanished, and he
looked at
Samar
’s face in complete confusion. “The . . .
President? But if you will not preside—”

           
Samar
turned to watch as the helicopter that had
been safely orbiting the rooftop now began its descent. When it landed, the
left side opened . . .

           
. . . and out stepped Arturo Mikaso.

           
Teguina could not believe his eyes.
His jaw dropped open in complete surprise as Mikaso stepped toward him. “Hello,
Daniel,” the Philippine President said. “Thank you for allowing us the use of
your getaway helicopter.”

           
Teguina also noticed that a Chinese
Army officer and two American military officers also stepped out of the same
helicopter. “What . . . what kind of conspiracy is this?” he stammered.

           
“No conspiracy, Daniel,” Mikaso
said. “The Chinese military has always said that they are in the
Philippines
to support the legitimate government
against rebels who wish to seize power. Well, I am the legitimate government,
and you are a traitor. They now support my government, along with the American
military. Now that the Filipino military is firmly behind me once more, their
services are no longer required, and they have advised us that they are
departing immediately—as are the Americans.”

           
“But . . . but I thought you were
dead!”

           
“You mean, you thought I had been
executed,” Mikaso corrected him. “I have learned that the Chinese dislike the
stain of honor that goes with executing a head of state. They shot me all
right—but it was only a superficial wound. Then they put me in protective
custody—a prison in any sense of the word, but I think a far better fate than
one that you had in store for me.” He nodded to the Commonwealth Defense Force
guards. “Take the First Vice President into custody. I have already advised the
Speaker of the Parliament of this action; he will meet you at Government House
with a copy of my warrant sworn out against Teguina.”

           
After Teguina was led away, Mikaso
and
Samar
stood and faced each other.
Samar
wore an expressionless visage; Mikaso a
slight smile. “So, General Samar. Are you happy to see me as well?”

           
“Why did you stay in custody so
long?”
Samar
asked bitterly. “The country has suffered
much because of your silence.”

           
“I had little choice in the matter,
Jose,” Mikaso explained. “While I was recuperating, the Chinese were trying to
decide which way the wind was blowing before really killing me. If they had not
seen what kind of fool Teguina was, I would be six feet under a dungheap in
Manchuria
by now.” He sighed, looking across to the
surrounding skyscrapers and tropical trees of
Manila
, then added, “The country needed to
experience a little suffering, Jose,” Mikaso said. “There will always be those
who think that armed struggle and revolution will accomplish more than
democracy. I think the people had a taste of what happens when democracy is not
allowed to work. If democracy fails, the will of whoever has the biggest or the
best guns prevails. That means death and destruction on a massive scale.”

           
Mikaso’s smile did not dim one bit
as he continued. “You were once a proponent of such a struggle not too long
ago, General—in fact, I believe the Chinese would have gladly followed
you
if you decided to lead the nation in
revolt. Could it be that the fearsome jungle fighter Jose Trujillo Samar
believes in democracy after all?”

           
Samar
shrugged, his features still hard-looking
and dark despite his hairless face. “Times change, politics change, politics
change . . . but I do not.”

           
“We shall see,” Mikaso said. “We . .
. shall. . . see.” He turned to face the two American and the Chinese military
officers. “So. Should we now expel all foreign military forces from our
country, Jose?”

           
“Part of the problem in this country
was that we excluded some but invited others,”
Samar
said. “Our country is still too poor to hope
we can survive by isolating ourselves from all contact with the outside
world—perhaps we should try opening our ports to all foreign military vessels.
If the Americans have use of port facilities for their military fleets, why not
the Chinese, or the Vietnamese, or the Russians? Is one society more or less
corrupting than another?”

           
“Interesting idea,” Mikaso said.
“Interesting . .

           
“I know, I know—you did not expect
it of me,”
Samar
said. “I am just a poor dumb soldier,
forced to dress like a politician.”

           
“Is that how you see yourself?”

           
“If I could control what others
thought of me, it would be different,”
Samar
said. There was a rather long and
comfortable pause between the two men; then: “What will you do with Teguina?
Will you push for the gallows?”

           
“Good question, Jose. What would you
do?”

           
Samar
adopted a faraway glance. “I’ve seen enough
death in this country,” he said. “Frankly, I do not think that fool Teguina had
a chance in hell of succeeding—he is too greedy and self-serving to lead a
country in revolution . . .”

           
“Are
you?”

           
Samar
gave Mikaso an irritated glance. “You speak
like some kind of amateur psychiatrist, Mr. President, answering questions with
questions.” He ignored Mikaso’s question and concluded, “I don’t think such
blind idiocy deserves the gallows. The prison at Puerto Princesa would be an
appropriate home for him for the rest of his life.”