Cervante could not hear his compatriots, but he knew that around him three dozen men were preparing for the attack. The fine wires that led to patches on the road, plastique, were the sole signs of the men’s presence.
Cervante wished he had situated himself closer to the young man Barguyo — a boy no older than fourteen — who would throw the switch and detonate the explosives when the armored personnel carrier appeared; but Cervante had too many items to take care of, and not enough of himself to go around.
It was the hardest lesson he had to learn: assigning responsibilities to the Huks and allowing them to work alone. It was a far cry from the way things used to be, but their ability to strike bigger targets, penetrate deeper into the establishment, had increased tremendously.
Cervante was no longer a one-man operation, and the lessons pounded into him in the training camps north of the South Korean border would meet its first big test today. If the Huks were going to survive and turn things around, it had to start now. They had to strike the Philippine Constabulary at the very heart of its operation and steal the weapons that had been tapped to ferret out the Huks.
Cervante could now make out the sounds of individual vehicles. The engine running at high gear had to be the jeep that preceded the convoy. It would be well ahead of the main body, and it should soon pass. The deeper roar came from troop and supply trucks, belching black smoke and grinding their gears in an attempt to climb the four-thousand-foot rise to Bagio City. Cervante wiggled to his side and pulled up five grenades. He left three hanging on his belt, in case the group had to flee back into the jungle and use the explosives for a makeshift booby trap.
Seconds passed. Cervante blinked away perspiration that dripped into his eyes. It sounded as if the jeep were right on top of them.…
The vehicle pulled around the bend. Five men sat in the overloaded jeep, rifles held loosely. All but the driver smoked cigarettes. The jeep took the corner recklessly, eliciting wild laughter from the passengers. The soldiers knew they were near their base. It was just the state of mind Cervante had hoped for: If the convoy’s commanding officers were jocular, then the troops would be in a similar vein.
When the jeep disappeared from view, Cervante’s grip on his rifle tightened. The humidity continued to bear down on him; sweat rolled off his nose, but aside from an occasional wipe to remove the perspiration, Cervante focused on the road. Waiting.
A puff of black smoke gave the first troop truck away. As it rounded the curve, the driver honked its horn to warn approaching vehicles of its presence. The truck lurched; a grinding sound came from the vehicle as the driver shifted to a lower gear. There would be more trucks, and Cervante had to wait for the precise one — too soon, and the convoy would combine forces and flush the Huks out; too late, and the convoy would speed up to outrun the ambush.
Another truck passed, full of PC — the Filipino Philippine Constabulary troops, heading for their home base.
Cervante counted the tenth truck before he decided. The driver had just put his cigarette back in his mouth and expelled a cloud of smoke when Cervante pulled the trigger.
The windshield shattered into a thousand pieces. Gunfire erupted everywhere, enveloping the once peaceful jungle in a barrage of white noise.
The truck veered wildly and flipped off the side of the road. It barreled through the brush and disappeared. Screams came from all around. The next truck did not have a chance to slow down. Blasts of gunfire peppered the air. The truck somehow managed to weave along the narrow road, then drove into the side of the mountain.
Cervante rammed a new cartridge of bullets into the AK-47, throwing the spent package to the side. He continued to pump bullets at the next truck. Soldiers leapt from the truck and scurried down the hillside; those who stopped to take aim at Cervante’s unseen companions were mowed down in a barrage.
Nothing came from up the road — the small PC contingent that had turned back to assist had encountered gunfire from the Huks stationed on the hill.
Cervante waited for a full ten heartbeats before yelling the order to search the vehicle, but an armored personnel carrier crept around the bend. Bullets ricocheted off the vehicle. Cervante wet his lips. He hoped that the boy Barguyo would not hurry, would wait until the precise moment.…
The APC stayed in its lowest gear, grinding up the steep roadway and firing bursts from an exterior gun mount. As the vehicle crept over the wires in the road, the plastique exploded. The APC lifted slightly off the ground, then stopped moving.
Cervante struggled to his feet, pulling the AK-47 up with him. He flung himself down the slope and raced to the APC. Smoke billowed from underneath the vehicle. Muffled screams came from the APC’s interior. As Cervante moved to the vehicle, Huks started pouring out from the jungle. The men clutched various types of rifles and ranged in age from preteen to late middle-aged.
Cervante pulled a grenade from his side. He snapped at the men still coming from the jungle. “Quickly, the supply truck!” He pointed with the grenade to the truck that had careened into the side of the hill.
Dropping his rifle, Cervante scrambled on top of the armored vehicle. He tried to open the APC hatch, but when the access did not give, he pushed his foot against the lever and kicked; the hatch barely creaked open. He pulled the grenade pin with his teeth.
A voice wailed from the vehicle in Tagalog: “Mother Maria, please help me!”
Cervante tossed the grenade into the APC, then leaped to the ground, running. When he was thirty feet from the APC, a muffled explosion rocked the area; the screaming inside the vehicle stopped.
A horn beeped down the road.
Seconds later, a truck driven by a Huk sympathizer roared into view. The old man driving the truck slammed on his brakes at the sight of the smoking armored personnel carrier. Cervante motioned at the man.
“Pompano! Get as close to the truck as you can.”
As Pompano crept forward, Cervante huffed up to the supply vehicle.
Two Huks threw wooden crates from the truck. Some cracked open, spilling bullets and rifles. Pompano positioned his truck, and a line of men quickly filled it with crates.
Cervante pulled himself inside the PC supply truck and made a quick scan for anything they should take. Several large crates caught his eye. He felt his pulse quicken at the prospect of finding some heat-seeking missiles. As he scrambled over the jumble of crates, he made out stenciled lettering written in English:
United States Army
Battlefield High-Power Microwave Weapon
Caution: Capacitors May Carry High Voltage!
The boy Barguyo stuck his head in the back of the truck: “Hurry, we are ready!”
Cervante pulled himself up. The gunshots grew louder. The Huks had taken nearly all the supplies … yet this “high-power microwave” device intrigued him. He snapped out, “Quickly, get me some help — we must take this with us.”
Moments later, Cervante was sitting in the rear with his comrades. Their spirits were high, and understandably so: they had commandeered bullets, rifles, and enough supplies to last the band of Huks six months. The truck bounced as it sped down the winding mountain road.
Cervante rummaged through the crates. Every new find heightened his elation: ammunition, food packets, medical supplies.
Finally, he pulled out a thick manual. Written in English with large print, the title read: