by Robert Lance
Alamo saw an opening. “You could help us by pulling the Chinese off-sides. They sunk your ship twenty-two miles north of the Scarborough Shoals. Your navy should make a demonstration there. It’s what they expect, and they may attempt to provoke another incident. Do not engage them under any circumstance. In the meantime, remove all surveillance of the Spratly arena.”
Salinas said, “The Chinese will use every detection means to comb Palawan for any military activity.”
“All they’ll find is a resort and white tourists lying on the beach. It would be better if I showed you the layout on our active satellite map.”
Alamo coaxed the Filipino admiral to the central console to show him the model of Operation Alamo. Admiral Salinas closely inspected the imagery on the screen. “Is this some kind of joke? I’m looking at our national park with no roads or infrastructure to support an incursion into the Spratly Islands. What resources do you have that I don’t see?”
“The political tension has elevated significantly, so we’ll be completely self-contained and entirely supported by the WESTPAC fleet. The Philippine government doesn’t need another cause to invite Chinese threats. You’ll never see us unless you come looking for us. I’m simply asking for permissive license.”
“If I grant it, what do we get in return?”
If I’m wrong, nothing, but if I’m right you’ll have proof that the Chinese have tactical nukes in the Spratly Islands.”
“We know that.”
“Prove it.”
“I see your point, but what difference will that make?”
“The President of the United States will have reason to neutralize the international threat, call the Chinese out, and flatten the fortifications.”
“Do you really believe we think your president will go to such extremes on behalf of an ally that has been the recipient of failed promises?”
“You’re correct. The president will not risk a broader war, but that’s not to say he won’t allow a clandestine operation to prevent China from conducting war on its neighbors. I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise. My ass is on the line. It’s your call, Admiral.”
“Something is better than nothing. Get us the evidence.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Ted Perrotte woke as the first rim of light peeked above the jungle. He pulled on a pair of shorts and quietly laced up his running shoes. He could hear the stirring of others and knew they would not be far behind him. It was his habit to know his environment in detail, so he saw the resort as a base camp rather than a Mecca for tourists. He slipped out the door to begin his inspection tour.
The further he jogged from the beach, the higher the temperature rose. He ignored the discomfort and continued his jog. The resort had walking trails carved into the jungle. The first trail was a dark hole in a dark green wall, an invitation to a morbid solitude. The night sounds howled and had yet given way to the coming of a new day. Ted was drawn to the maze and slowed his trot. The unknown was a challenge to conquer. Every route to enter or leave the resort was essential to a man whose mind clicked with military precision.
The trail was indeed a tunnel in a rainforest filled with lush ferns, vines, and exotic life densely packed to ward off an intrusion of visitors. Moss and webs dangled from the limbs of a fortress of trees, completing the claustrophobic enclosure. He had traveled no more than a hundred meters and found side trails spawning from the walking trail. He followed them all. They all led to a roaring stream that carried off the water runoff of the daily rains. The stream paralleled a vertical mountain ridge rising from the forest floor and disappeared through the jungle canopy. Rugged benches made from native logs dotted the banks of the stream, presumably to offer a rest stop where tourists could sit and contemplate the beauty before them.
Ted stopped. His mind was not on peaceful thoughts. He was making a mental map should it be useful to escape or hide. The jungle emitted gases and molds that had a putrid smell that only got worse as the day wore on. Morning birds began to sing, and the chatter of night changed with the coming of dawn.
A primitive intuition invaded his thoughts. He had a feeling that he was not alone. So, he did what his training had taught him. He quietly rose from the bench to meld into the jungle growth. All of his senses were alert. The evidence of human presence was muted and soft as his hearing tracked sounds moving in his direction. A figure appeared from the mist of shadows. He instantly recognized the other person on the walking trail. The woman was wearing pink shorts, and a pink and white sports bra. The nun had a rather risqué wardrobe. He smiled to himself as he watched her from hiding. She possessed a natural grace with her movements. The beauty of nature was nothing compared to her exercise routine. She stretched, twisted, touched her toes, and pumped her slim legs.
Perrotte could have flopped around in the overgrowth like a wounded bull elephant. The temptation to reach out and touch her was overwhelming. It took all of his concentration to restrain his desire. He continued to watch her from the curtain of jungle. She sat on the bench in a tranquil pose. It was as if she were teasing him. She reached into her waist band and removed a rosary. He heard her silently begin to pray.
The incongruity of what he was observing shocked him. Who was this woman? Sister Anna, with a spirited indifference to decorum had a pious streak after all. His curiosity was bursting, but her privacy to pray in peace belonged to her. She mumbled five “Hail Mary’s” and one “Our Father” and tucked her rosary back in her waist band. She had her own conversation with God, and he swore that he heard the mention of his name. She rose, did a few stretches and took off down the trail. He was enthralled and confused as he watched a beautiful pink fanny trot off down a dark trail.
Perrotte completed his inspection tour of the grounds and found his mates sitting at a pool side table munching on pastries and drinking coffee. They looked as out of place as pink flamingos at the North Pole. SEALs didn’t waste much of their disposable income on civilian attire. All three of them wore navy issue black swimsuits and bland tee shirts in one of three camouflage colors. Each wore stout footwear as if they were going on a fifteen mile mountain hike. There wasn’t a SEAL on the planet who would be caught wearing flip flops in public.
Perrotte looked down and saw that he was as out of place as his teammates. He shuffled onto the deck, trying to look casual but felt the gaze of his mates sizing him up. Gates said, “Grab some coffee and a donut. The breakfast bar doesn’t open until six.”
Perrotte mumbled a greeting and went to an open-air stand looking for something close to a donut. A small man, dressed in white and wearing a tall white cook’s hat flittered and fussed in an attempt to help him, making a big deal about nothing. He suffered through the pestering and ended up with a diaper looking pastry that made him lose his appetite. There must have been some entertainment value as the cook with a hat half his size, swirled about like a dervish dancer without losing the hat. His mates were laughing as Perrotte made his way to the table, trying to sidestep the little man in white.
Perry chuckled. “Meet Ramon, the pastry chef.”
Ramon bowed deeply and still had not lost the hat. He proudly proclaimed. “I am Ramon, your pastry chef, and in fifteen minutes, I will be your chief chef. I will make for you a majestic breakfast. My omelets are renowned and the best in all of Palawan. You only have to ask, and Ramon will perform magic, monsieur.” Ramon struck a haughty pose of a Parisian chef, whose vocation was art, not cooking omelets.
Ramon made a big show of shoving a plastic chair under Perrotte at the table. He strutted away, and Perrotte said, “That was awkward.”
Fitz said, “Kept his hat on didn’t he?” He pointed to the diaper on the plastic plate in front of Perrotte. “The pastry is as good as his word. The little shit is a fountain of information. You can’t shut him up about the river.”
Perry said, “The man has lived here all his life and has yet to take the tour. He says it takes all day.”
Gates said, “The only way to
get there is by boat. It’s only a couple miles by land, but the boat has to go around a peninsula and into an inlet where the river meets the sea. It’s a pain in the ass, according to Ramon.”
Perrotte nibbled at the pastry, then wolfed it down. He nodded approvingly as he listened to the other men passing light conversation. The chief topic was centered on sitting around, doing nothing. They were second guessing each other and speculating about their quick deployment. All of them were certain it had nothing to do with bats or mold.
Their privacy was interrupted by two women dressed in beach wraps, flip flops, big hats, sunglasses and laden with big bags stuffed with towels and whatever necessary to stake a claim to a plot on the beach. The taller woman wore a dark purple one-piece bathing suit under her wrap that pronounced her lack of curves. Her face had an undertaker sober appearance. Spooky. Her sidekick was short and dumpy. She wore a bikini with enough material for the both of them. Baby fat rolls oozed over the waist and jiggled as she walked. Both women were middle aged Wal-Mart super models. Without so much as a glance, the women changed course to avoid the four men watching them. They went to the end of the pool deck to the furthermost table. They had not escaped Ramon as his big white hat bobbed up and down before they could sit down.
None of the four men would have taken notice under different circumstances. The resort was supposed to be closed, and the presence of the two women begged a question.
Perry was first to offer his suspicion. “Who the hell are they?” he asked. “I thought this place was supposed to be closed to the public.”
Perrotte said, “Maybe they’re the mold cleaning crew on break.”
Gates said, “You’re wrong, Ted. The tall one is a bat killer. I know a bat killer when I see one. Gives me the fucking willies.”
“They act suspicious to me. Like they don’t belong here,” said Perrotte.
Perry shot back, “You’re suspicious of all women. Hey, maybe they’re nuns. You think? Nuns travel in packs, and with any luck, Sister Anna will turn up.”
Perrotte avoided speaking his thoughts on the subject. He said, “We should use our time productively. We need to get local. Find out the stream of commerce, the habits of the town, and the gossip about what’s going on. With the Chinese round-up, there has to be talk.”
Gates said, “Ramon gave us an ear full. The Chinese tourists are quiet, well behaved, and generally stick to themselves, but the staff are not sorry to see them go. They don’t spend money, nor do they tip. They come, and then they go.”
“What does Ramon say about the ship sinking?” asked Perrotte.
“He didn’t say. Fishing is the main industry here. Ramon can’t get in the spirit of hating the Chinese like most of his neighbors and relatives. The bartender, Roberto, is his brother, and he isn’t as single minded as Ramon. I gather a drunk Chinaman can be rather abusive and they don’t tip either.”
“We should talk to Roberto,” said Gates.
“What does Ramon say about the resort closing?”
Gates said, “Ramon doesn’t get it. Apparently, he’s not troubled, like maybe he’s grandfathered in. He’s more worried about the biting bats. Bat omelets, now there’s a thought.”
Perrotte chuckled. “I can’t figure out why Alamo picked this place. We should be building a base camp down by the river.”
“Can’t,” said Fitz. “The river floods the cavern floor for the most part. Besides, it’s eco-sensitive. No picnics on the sandbars.”
Gates said, “There has to be a landing or you wouldn’t see so many tourists.”
Perrotte said, “One of us needs to checkout the river.”
“Not me.” said Perry. “I hate bats.”
Fitz said, “What about the nun? It’s strange she hasn’t come back for her camera. Did we learn anything from that episode? What was on it?”
Perrotte said, “Porn.”
“Porn?” they all said in unison.
“Yeah, porn. There were four pictures of your sorry asses.”
“That’s all? No sunsets? No pictures from the plane? That’s strange, Ted.”
“I think I’ll take a walk down to the Blue Moon. While I’m there, I’ll do some snooping.”
“Forget it, Ted. Yesterday was a galactic anomaly that comes once in a life time. You blew your chance. Give me the Camera,” said Perry.
Gates said, “Listen to little boy with the blue balls. Jack, you can’t get into Megan Mallon’s drawers with a hundred dollar bill pasted to your forehead, and what would she do if she knew you even thought about it. We’re working here. Ted called her out, and I think that was the smart call. Let Ted handle the woman.”
Ted was relieved that Gates spoke up. He admitted to himself that he was looking forward to confronting the mysterious woman, regardless of her religious affiliation. He cautioned himself because there was a lot of space between her pious moment and her scandalous one. He said, “I’ll checkout the river on my way back. Let’s meet up here at noon.”
CHAPTER SIX
Perrote discovered the Blue Moon resort was not at the other end of the beach. It was a long climb to the top of a mountain and more isolated than the Sheridan. There was no view from the entrance, and the place was a series of bamboo and palm structures slapped on a hillside. The guest rooms were open air bungalows on stilts with a flimsy door, bamboo window shades and no air-conditioning. There were foot paths to each of the twenty shacks. Sister Anna had every reason to bitch. The Blue Moon was a hideous resort.
He found the checkout desk where a teenaged boy with slicked backed hair and a bad tattoo of a serpent climbing his arm smirked. The boy sized him up. “Hey Joe. You need a room?” he asked.
Perrotte was short. “I’m looking for a guest.”
“There are no guests. They all gone.”
“I’m looking for a white woman. A church woman.”
“There are no Americans here. I told you we have no guests. The federals took them all away.”
“Maybe she was here. I have something that belongs to her. She said she was staying here.”
The kid took a prolonged look at the camera. His smirk turned to a sly smile. Then he demonstrated recognition by fanning his hand in front of his face and whooping softly. “The American woman, she is not a lady of the church. Maybe you give me camera, and I will return it to her.”
“You just said she isn’t a guest.”
“I’m just thinking she has gone somewhere. I will find out. Then you pay me to take it to her.”
“How long has she been here?”
“Only this day. Maybe yesterday.” He shrugged.
“You said you have no guests.”
He shrugged again. “She was not on the bus to town. Maybe she is sleeping, and doesn’t want to be bothered. Give me camera, and I return it, very soon.”
Perrotte said, “She won’t mind if I bother her. I’ll give you five dollars, and you point me in the right direction.”
“Give me five dollars, and I will take it to her.”
Ted began to put his billfold in his pocket and said. “Tell her I have her camera, and that she knows where to find me.”
The kid could see a fortune slipping out of his hands. His disposition suddenly changed. “Take the trail. She stays in the fourth bungalow.”
Ted paid the kid and made sure he made noise as he trotted down the lane and climbed a set of rickety stairs to a landing on the bungalow. He rattled the door frame and called out to her. No answer. “Sister Anna, Ted Perrotte…we met yesterday…You left your camera on the beach.” No answer.
Ted dared a peek into the dark interior. It was Spartan to the extreme. A shower head hung on a wall over a drain pan flanked by a portable toilet. A twelve-inch mirror hung from a rough wall beam on one side of the enclosure. On an adjacent wall a gaudy painting on velvet hung from another beam. A chain of pink and white plastic flowers looped the room to give it an even more dismal atmosphere. Cheap ‘little people’ furniture made from rattan and
native wood filled out the décor. Two midget beds sat side by side. One had been slept in, and the other had luggage piled on it.
Ted noticed tiny black scraps of cloth strung over a bed rail. He had seen them before. On the unmade bed he spied a wad of pink and another, pink and white. He had found the right bungalow. He stepped in with the thought of putting the camera with the luggage on the other bed. One bag lay open. Ted wasn’t prying— but he was. He let out a low whistle as further examination said something about the owner. Ted whispered under his breath, “Mother superior would never approve.”
Sister Anna had a lot of baggage for a nun on a Spartan sabbatical. Two big bags and a small carry on. Now he was prying. He put his hand on the handle of one of the bags to look at the luggage tag. “Lieutenant Heather Cummins.” The name didn’t surprise him but the navy rank did. He quickly looked at the other luggage tag, which matched the first. A bigger mystery was beginning to take form. What was a female Navy officer doing on a secret deployment into a potential hot zone?
His curiosity was peaked, and he noticed the smaller piece of luggage, a worn carry-on bag that didn’t match the larger bags. He checked the tag for good measure. The names didn’t match, but the last name was one that he was very familiar with. He dropped the camera. His jaw dropped, and he studied the tag at length. “What the fuck?” he said to himself. Everything had just turned upside-down weird. Ted took a quick look around and decided it was best to make tracks without leaving a footprint. A shiver went up his spine as he picked up the camera and tiptoed to the open passage.
Ted made his way to the boat landing at Sabang. There were shallow draft water taxi’s pulled up on the beach or buoyed in the harbor. Without tourists, the taxi business was shut down. Further out in the bay, a small fishing fleet was also at anchor. The local fishermen had been warned and weren’t taking any chances with the Chinese patrol boats stalking the Spratly Islands.