Standing in the doorway was Takishi, holding a silenced machine gun at his side.
He smiled and finished his business.
“And it is good you are not in my line of work, Admiral,” he said, stepping over the bodies.
Leaning over the admiral’s corpse, he whispered to the man’s lifeless face, “Politics? This is about national survival, my dear friend.”
Takishi, who used the moniker “Charlie Watts,” pulled out his satellite-enabled phone and sent a text message to his contact, “Mick Jagger.”
Satisfaction.
A moment later Mick Jagger sent a return note:
Let it bleed.
Indeed, Takishi thought. If you only knew.
Takishi boarded his Shin Meiwa as the men in the black limousine moved to dispose of the attack boat.
Chapter 6
Takishi was a busy man. That morning he had flown nearly nineteen hundred kilometers from Yonaguni to Davao City, Mindanao, to meet quickly with the Abu Sayyaf leader there.
He stooped and stepped down the ladder of the Shin Meiwa. The new version of an endangered species of an airplane, with its upgraded Japanese computer avionics and GPS technology, made the vessel perfect for Takishi’s purposes.
As he stood on the steaming runway, the bright sunlight and intense Mindanao heat rapped him in the face. He was tired from the previous night’s seafaring activities, and the humidity further sucked his strength. Yet, he was more at home there than bouncing around the cockpit of Kinoga’s attack boat. Dismissing the thoughts of killing the admiral and his men, Takishi was focused on his next task. So much to do.
Meeting Takishi on the tarmac was Commander Douglas Talbosa, a snake-eyed man who led the entire Abu Sayyaf movement in the Philippines, having engineered several attacks and kidnappings over the past decade. The more spectacular, the better, because the money would pour into the Abu Sayyaf coffers once they were able to post onto the Internet the images of death and destruction. Talbosa was unusually tall for a Filipino, nearly six feet, and wore an Australian bush hat with one side flipped up. Takishi looked at him and thought the man at least had some style.
That an emerging Muslim extremist terror network existed in that remote southern isle of the Philippine archipelago was no surprise to Takishi. He knew that Al Qaeda was seeking areas that lacked governance, and the hundreds of islands that constituted the Republic of the Philippines were impossible to govern effectively. The remote islands presented the perfect sanctuary ingredients: desperate, uneducated peasants, isolated terrain, and clandestine routes of ingress and egress.
Those ingredients were perfect for Takishi’s plan as well.
His sunglasses shielded his eyes from the bright sun and the Filipino commander. The prop wash from the four propellers of the Shin Meiwa blew hot air against his back as he bowed. Fortunately, Takishi had worn his lightweight khakis for his final meeting with the Al Qaeda knockoff group.
Talbosa returned the bow and said in broken English, “Good news. But first, Takishi, I should show you our plans for the entire operation again.”
“I only have a few minutes, Talbosa, but I wanted to make sure we had no remaining problems.”
“Yes, yes, no problem,” Talbosa said quickly with a heavy accent. “All operations are no problem. All good. Good news, too.”
“What news?”
“We have destroyed two ranger C-130 airplanes. My deputy, Pascual, is securing them now.”
Takishi reflected a moment, glad his eyes were hidden by sunglasses. The Rolling Stones work quickly, he mused.
“Yes, that is good news. Do you have all of the information and ammunition you require?”
“We have most of what we need. Luzon will attack the Subic ammo point. No problem. They get the ammo from Subic for us and to keep the Americans from having it. No problem.”
“Okay, you run your operation however you see fit. I’m here to make sure you have what you need. And congratulations on the victory.”
“No problem. And Takishi, I have been inspecting your operation as well. It appears you have no problems also?”
Takishi lowered his sunglasses and stared at Talbosa, whose face was rigid with sincerity.
“No problems.” Takishi smiled.
He offered his hand to the Filipino as they approached his aircraft.
“Yes, it is all good. And remember, Talbosa …”
“Yes?”
“When you are done, you will be justly rewarded. Perhaps president?”
“We want Muslim nation; that is all.” Talbosa was nonplussed. A warrior and devout Muslim, he was akin to the Taliban, who intersected with the poppy growers to fuel their insurgency. By whatever means possible.
“One final thing,” Takishi said.
“Yes? But hurry, I must meet with Pascual.”
“There is an American somewhere on this island. It would be good to catch him and … do as you please with him.” Takishi looked down the long runway, away from Talbosa, wondering if they caught the significance of what he was saying. “Matt Garrett. He’s CIA.”
“I understand, Takishi,” Talbosa said. “We will capture this man and make an example out of him.”
“But no other Americans, clear?”
“No problems,” Talbosa smiled.
Chapter 7
Takishi bid Talbosa farewell and boarded his plane. He fit a set of headphones over his ears as he sat in a strapped jump seat between the pilot and copilot, and told them to head to Cateel Bay.
The Shin Meiwa pulled away from the runway with a short roll, its four powerful Rolls-Royce engines easily lifting the aircraft off the concrete instead of having to fight the suction created during a waterborne take-off.
Ascending above Davao City, Takishi looked down upon the impoverished metropolis. There were a few modern buildings in the downtown area, like a pearl in a rotten oyster, but they quickly gave way to adobe structures, then to the thatch huts that dominated the outskirts of the city. Banana plantations and rice paddies formed odd geometric shapes beneath them, in stark contrast to the thick triple-canopy jungle of the highlands.
His pilot cut the trim of the tail rudder, and the plane leveled into a smooth glide. Cateel Bay was only forty-five minutes away, just northeast of Davao City on the eastern coast of Mindanao.
They flew above the tropical rain forest that dominated the mountains, which cut a jagged north-to-south path over the eastern portion of the island. A series of small agricultural and fishing villages dotted the east coast. Takishi could see groupings of thatch huts every twelve kilometers or so. Parked on the sandy shore were small wooden boats that the fishermen used for short ventures beyond the coral reef to harvest the rich waters of the Philippine Sea.
He tapped the pilot on the shoulder when he saw the horseshoe of Cateel Bay. The pilot knew the route and nodded at Takishi. They began their descent, circling down from above. The tropical blue hue of the water became more evident as they floated downward. The pilot banked the Shin Meiwa, then leveled its wings parallel to the water. With its protective coral reef nearly a kilometer offshore, Cateel Bay was the perfect area in which to land an air/seaplane. There were no waves, and the beach was sandy, allowing the craft easy ingress and egress.
The plane skidded as it always did, spraying fine mist in either direction. Another skid, and the water’s friction against the pontoons grabbed the craft, causing its passengers to lurch slightly forward for a typical landing. The pilot steered the plane to the beach, where it found purchase with a gentle nudge into the sand.
Takishi turned and spoke in his harsh Japanese tongue to his eighteen passengers, telling them to stand and exit the airplane.