Gray Resurrection (9 page)

“The
sundalos
?”
Assaf asked.

“I don’t think so.  Edgar was shot
but Bong and Manny were killed with knives.  The
sundalos
are cowards: they don’t like to get in that close.”

Mansour was disturbed by what he was
hearing.  It seemed his instincts had been right all along, and he cursed
himself for not disposing of the man with his own hand.

“Is it possible that the prisoner killed
them?” he asked.

The aide considered the
possibility.  “By himself?  Unlikely.  Two were stabbed and one
was shot in the back of the head.  I can’t imagine how he could do that,
especially when they managed to fire so many shots.  He must have had
help.”

Mansour frowned.  If it wasn’t the
local soldiers, then who had come to his rescue?  And what was so special
about this man that someone would send in a team to retrieve him?

These concerns were soon pushed aside as
he remembered having discussed the upcoming attack on the base in the man’s
presence.  Should he bring this to Assaf’s attention?  He decided not
to: Assaf would surely want to cancel the attack, and there was a schedule to
maintain.  Instead he took Nabil's arm and pulled him to one side.

“The attack will go ahead tomorrow, as
planned, but there is a chance they may have been forewarned.  You should
expect heavy resistance.”

“If Allah wills it, they will all be
sleeping in their beds.  If not, I am ready to fight for my place amongst
the virgins.”

“Allah will reserve a special place for
you, I am sure of it.”

They rejoined Assaf.  “How are the
preparations for the attack coming along?” Mansour asked.

“The vehicles have been purchased and we
will be fitting them for the mini-guns this evening.  Everything else is
in place and the men know what is expected of them.”

“I would still like to get the team
leaders together to go through the attack one more time.”

Assaf nodded and sent his aide to gather
them together around the map table, which was nothing more than four crates
pushed together to form a square.

“When the mounted unit goes in, you will
have some extra company,” Mansour said.  “The Americans have a fondness
for all things living, so we will place one of the white prisoners in each
vehicle.  We will need to ensure they are prominent, but not so much that
they interfere with the mission.  Any suggestions?”

He was hugely disappointed by the lack
of response.  How on earth were these people going to think on their feet
in the middle of a battle if they couldn’t come up with a solution to this
simple problem?  But then, the raid didn’t have to succeed: it just had to
be audacious and act as a warning to the western world.

“Nabil, what would you suggest?”

“The trucks we will be using have an
open bed at the back.  We could lash a board to the back of the cab so
that it is pointing to the sky.  We can then strap the prisoner to the
board standing up, facing forward.  They would be vulnerable to any
incoming fire, which should cause our enemies to think twice before shooting.”

“I like it.  Take some men and
oversee the modifications to the trucks.  Once they are completed we need
to finish off the defences, so you will need to be quick.”

Nabil selected a couple of armed men to
guide him down the mountain and another couple to help carry the mounting for
the mini-gun and they set off through the morning heat.  It was a three
hour trek to the compound where the trucks were being stored and he was soaked
with sweat by the time he arrived, but he shrugged off the inconvenience and
dived straight into the work. 

The Dillon could be supplied with a DVRM-1
support assembly for mounting the weapon on the back of a vehicle, but aside
from being bulky it was designed for use with the HMMWV, or Humvee class of
vehicle.  Instead they had brought along a couple of MK16 naval post
mounts, designed primarily for naval deployment but which was capable of being
mounted on any flat bed.  All it required was an area of two feet by two
feet — which the Datsun pickups had with room to spare — and Nabil began by
marking out the bolt holes before drilling them out.  He then used a rivet
gun to secure the feet in place and moved on to the post for the
prisoner.  They settled on a couple of planks six feet long by eight
inches wide and lashed them to the back of the cab vertically.

Once the modifications had been made
they drove the trucks to a clearing a couple of kilometres from the base of the
hill and climbed back to the camp.  Mansour was standing with a group of
others around one of the boxes and he was explaining how the Claymore mines
worked when Nabil joined them.

“You are just in time,” Mansour
said.  “I have been told that the perimeter foxholes have been
completed.  After you have eaten, I would like you to check them and start
laying the defensive mines.”

“Certainly,” Nabil replied.  A
belly full of food was just what he needed, and afterwards he went to inspect
the work that had been done.

The first foxhole he came across had
half a dozen soldiers sitting around it and showed how much work remained to be
done.  It was barely a scrape in the ground and the occupant couldn't have
been more conspicuous if he'd painted himself fluorescent orange.

Nabil instructed one of the men to
gather the others from around the perimeter and while he waited for them to
return he gave the remaining soldiers instructions as to what he expected.

“This hole needs to be at least three
feet from front to back and six feet wide.  It also needs to be deep
enough so that you can stand up in it with just your head and shoulders
visible.”

He marked out the size with a stick and
told them to start digging.  While two took to that task Nabil showed the
others how to create a roof for the hole using branches lashed together with
thin strips of bark.  The finished product looked like a coffee table,
with an eight-inch leg in each corner.  Nabil placed it over the finished
hole and it had enough of a gap on the right-hand side that the occupants could
get in without removing it.  The final step was to camouflage it and he
used cuttings from nearby bushes and ferns to disrupt the outline while allowing
those inside a good field of fire.

Nabil pointed to one of the
soldiers.  “Go and get another thirty men and tell them to bring
shovels.  The rest of you, follow me.  I will mark out the location
for the other foxholes and I want four men working on each one.  These
have to be in place before we launch the attack tomorrow, so you will have to
work fast.”

He paced out the distance to the next
hole to ensure they weren't too far apart: If the enemy managed to overcome one
of the positions he wanted the neighbours to be able to cover the gap. 
Once he'd done a complete circuit of the hill and returned to the original hole
he had marked out ten positions and work had begun on each of them.

Next up was the laying of the
Claymores.  Unlike conventional mines which are designed to be buried
underground, these anti-personnel devices are command-detonated and
directional, meaning they could target a certain area.  The operator would
wait until the enemy were in the kill zone before hitting the plastic detonator
switch, sending around seven hundred 3mm steel ball bearings out to a distance
of a hundred yards, much like a giant shotgun.  Anyone caught in the
sixty-degree blast radius could kiss their shredded ass goodbye.

Nabil showed the men how to prepare the
mine and disguise it, then ensured that the detonation wire leading back to the
foxhole was buried under the dead leaves and other fallen debris on the jungle
floor. Once back at the foxhole he demonstrated the trigger before attaching it
to the wire, effectively priming the weapon.

Evening was drawing in as he finished
the lesson.  “We need to make every hole the same as this one,” he said,
“and we don't have much time.  After tomorrow's attack the enemy will come
at us in great numbers, and these defences will be the only thing between
survival and annihilation.”

Leaving them with that thought he
returned to the camp for his evening prayers.  As he neared the plateau he
heard the familiar sound of gunfire coming from the opposite side of the
hill.  He flicked off the safety on his M16 and headed towards the noise.

Chapter 10

Thursday 19th
April 2012

Sister Evangelina Benesueda was
concluding afternoon prayers, guiding the children through the Lord’s Prayer
for the second time that day.  She had been running the tiny school
virtually single-handed for nearly a year since arriving from Manila and the
work had been the most rewarding of her life.

It lifted her heart to see the happy
faces of the orphans as they followed her lead, a few of them grappling with
the English words but the majority comfortable with the new language.

“…Thy Kingdom
come.
Thy will be done in earth,
As it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us…”

As they neared the end of the prayer
Evangelina heard a commotion outside the front door and became wary.  In a
predominantly Muslim region, her Christian teachings attracted a lot of
negative attention.  This was the reason she had hired a local
ex-policeman to stand guard outside during school hours, and it sounded like he
was in a confrontation with someone.

She was walking towards the door just as
it came crashing in and half a dozen armed men strode into the classroom. 
They were all brandishing bolos and two or three of them were already bloodied.
Through the open door she could see her guard laid out on the floor, blood
seeping from several wounds.

She saw the men eyeing the youngsters
and ran to place herself between them, arms outstretched.

“They are just children!” she screamed,
but her protests were cut off as a bolo arched through the air and connected
with the side of her head, cleaving a gaping wound above her temple.  A
second blow caught her on the back of the neck as she fell and the last thing
she saw was the kids being dragged, kicking and screaming through the classroom
door.

* * *

Camp Bautista is located next to Jolo’s
domestic airport runway and is home to the 3rd Marine Brigade, Philippine
Marine Corps.  Within the base is another compound which houses U.S.
troops, predominantly National Guardsmen.  In addition, there is a
detachment of the CIA’s Special Activities Division. 

In the battle against Abu Sayyaf, the
U.S. military had been given a strictly advisory role, assisting the local
armed forces in terms of strategy and occasionally logistics.  This
directive hadn’t sat too well with Colonel Travis Dane, commanding officer of
the Special Operations Group which was the elite paramilitary element of
SAD.  As a man of action, sitting around in a comfortable office while
just a few clicks away there were bad guys waiting to be killed was anathema to
him.  Being limited to arming and training the local soldiers had done
nothing for his already formidable demeanour, leading the indigenous troops to
give him the name Angry Dog.  He was rather proud of his new tag and made
sure everyone used it, even his own men.  Perhaps because they shared his frustrations,
he wasn’t as hard on them as he was the rest of the world.

“Dog,” Scott Garcia said as he entered
the office.  “The guys we found are in the cells.”

The Colonel got up from behind his desk
and followed the sergeant over to the stockade.

“What do we know about them?”

“They're British, but they won't give me
their names.  One of them claims that Abdul Mansour is on the island
preparing for an attack on the base.”

“Abdul Mansour?  
The
Abdul
Mansour, here on Jolo?”

Garcia shrugged.  “So he claims.”

As they entered the guardhouse the two
Filipino guards snapped to attention.

“At ease.”

Dog saw the three men sitting in the
single cell.  A pile of personal belongings was on a table, including
their phones.  Dog powered them both up before thumbing through the
contact lists in search of clues.  One phone contained several Manila
numbers and a few belonging to mobiles, while the other contained a single
entry: Farrar.

“You want to tell me what you were doing
in my jungle?” he asked the trio through the bars.

“We came to get our friend,” Len said,
indicating towards Grant.

“So what's your friend's name?”

The question was met with silence.

“Okay, tell me about Abdul Mansour.”

“He's here on the island and is planning
to attack one of the bases tomorrow night,” Grant said.

“This is the only base on Jolo,” Dog
told him.  “We have a few people scattered across the island doing
humanitarian work, but this is the main camp.  So tell me how Mansour came
to be on Jolo.”

“I don't know.  I was captured by
the Abu Sayyaf on Basilan last week and they brought me here yesterday. 
Mansour was already in their camp.”

“And he told you he was going to attack
this base?”

“He didn't tell me personally, I
overheard a conversation.”

“How can you be sure it was Abdul
Mansour?”

“His face has been all over the news for
the past year.  I'd recognise him anywhere.”

Dog's expression conveyed his
scepticism.  “Sorry, but I don't buy it.  Mansour is a big-time
player and if you told me he was going to attack the White House I might
believe you, but to come to the poorest part of the world to attack a base
housing less than a hundred U.S. personnel is not his style.”

“Whether you believe me or not, it's
going to happen,” Grant said, exasperated.  “You can either prepare for
it, or ignore the warning and explain to your bosses why everyone under your
command is dead.”

Dog let out a laugh.  “I hardly
think a few dozen poorly-armed terrorists are going to wipe out an entire
base.”

“I'd say the number was closer to two
hundred, and their weapons looked brand new.  I think your intel needs
updating.”

The size of the enemy force was clearly
news to Dog, and it took a moment to process the new information.  His
team consisted of just half a dozen men, himself included, with the rest of the
U.S. contingent made up of eighty National Guard Engineers.  There were
also over a hundred Filipino Marines assigned to the base.  While they
might be closely matched on numbers, he felt sure that training and experience
would be the deciding factor.  That was, if there was such a strong
opposing force and they were actually planning an attack.

“We'll need to check this out,” he
said.  “You said you were held in their camp: where is it?”

“Not far from where he found us,” Grant
said, nodding towards Garcia.  “Head south for about one click, then start
climbing.  They're on a plateau about a hundred yards from the summit.”

He took his sergeant aside. 
“Scott, does that sound plausible?”

Garcia pulled his operations map from
his pants pocket and found the location. “He could be telling the truth. 
Those directions put them on Hill 178, and we've had a few skirmishes in that
area, though we've never managed to get close to the top.  Drones haven't
managed to tell us much, either.”

“Take your team and see how close you
can get.  Avoid contact if you can, just give me numbers.”  Dog
lowered his voice to a whisper.  “Before you leave, stop by the command
centre and get close-up shots of these guys using the CCTV, then have them sent
to Langley.”

Garcia nodded and left the room.

Dog sat on a desk and folded his
arms.  “So, assuming you're telling the truth, I still need to know who
you are.  We're usually the first to be notified about kidnappings and
there's been no reports of a white male being taken, not for a few months
anyway.  Why would that be?”

“Maybe because I didn't contact the
embassy,” Grant shrugged.

“But you have had contact with the
outside world,” Dog said, and turned his attention back to the phones.  The
operating system was unfamiliar so it took him a moment to find the call
log. 

As he was fiddling his way through the
menus the door banged open and a five-foot storm barrelled into the room.

General Tomas B. Callinag, commanding
officer of the 3rd Marine Brigade had a reputation that made Dog look like an
excited puppy.  While Dog begrudged his unit’s non-combatant role,
Callinag resented their very presence on Philippine soil.

“When were you going to tell me about
these prisoners?”

Dog stood lazily to attention, knowing
his insubordinate actions would further rile the officer but caring little.

“I was just about to send a runner to
inform you, sir.”

Callinag dismissed the excuse with a
wave of his hand and stood in front of the cells staring at the occupants.

“Who are they?  What are they doing
on Jolo?”

“I was just in the process of
establishing that, General.  Would you mind if I continued?”

The Filipino shot him a look before
moving away from the cell and settling into a chair behind the desk.

“You say you were kidnapped last week,”
Dog continued, “which means you could only have been communicating with someone
called Farrar.  And why did they let you keep your mobile, I wonder? 
It looks to me like you guys are members of Abu Sayyaf.”

“They didn't let me keep it,” Grant said
indignantly.  “I took it back when I escaped.”

“Okay then, tell me about Farrar.”

“He's just someone I met in
Manila.  One of my captors saw his name in the phone and called him,
that's all.”

“So how come your friends have a phone
with just one contact in it: Farrar?”

Grant knew he had already said far too
much, and just stared at the wall indicating an end to the conversation.

Garcia popped his head round the door
and nodded to Dog before disappearing as quickly as he'd appeared.

“Gentlemen, you might as well tell me
who you are now.  Your mug-shots are currently being analysed at CIA
headquarters in Langley and they will be able to cross-reference your details
with every friendly intelligence agency in the world.  Why don't you just
— ”

He was interrupted by the chirping of
Grant's phone, and the display told him who was on the other end of the call.

“Let's see what Farrar has got to say
about all this, shall we?”

“Put it on speakerphone,” Callinag said,
“I want to hear this, too.”

* * *

When the notification appeared on his
laptop screen, Farrar clicked the message and saw that Grant's phone had been
activated.  Strangely, the device he'd given to Smart and Baines appeared
to be in exactly the same location.  Did it mean they had successfully
rescued him already, or had they been captured by Abu Sayyaf, too?

He decided that the only way to find out
was to call Grant's phone and see who answered. 

“Hello?” he heard when the call was
connected.  Farrar didn't recognize the voice but it was definitely
Filipino.

“Where is Bong?” he asked.

“Bong isn't here,” the voice said. 
“Who is this?”

“It's Farrar.  Is Sam still with
you?”

“Yes, Sam is here, and so are two of his
friends.”

Excellent, Farrar thought, giving himself
a mental high-five.  Knowing he had to temper his excitement for a little
longer he took a couple of deep breaths.

“I think you should know that Sam and
his friends are mercenaries working for the British government.  They were
sent to kill your leaders.”

“Farrar, you bastard —”

Smart's words told Farrar that his last
statement had sealed their fate and a genuine smile appeared in his lips for
the first time in weeks. 

“Goodbye, Sam.  I can't say it's
been a pleasure knowing you.”

Farrar hung up the mobile phone and
removed the SIM card, placing it in his pocket.  He called his driver and
told him to have the car ready in ten minutes, then asked his secretary to book
him onto the next flight for London Heathrow. 

With Grant and the others out of the way
he had a few hours to shut down the Manila operation before heading home to
Oxfordshire.  The staff would be transferred to other duties and the
offices would be handed back to the leasing company, all details which the
attaché at the British Embassy would handle on his behalf.  His sole
concern was to get home to his apartment and pack his bags.

Picking up just his laptop and jacket he
walked out of the office for the last time, without giving his secretary so
much as a 'goodbye'.

On the drive to his apartment he tossed
the SIM card into the street where a thousand tyres would crush it to dust
within the hour.  When he arrived he told the driver to wait while he went
inside to collect the few personal items he'd brought with him from the U.K., mainly
clothes and books.