“Yes, comrade.”
Locsin hung up as they pulled up to Corregidor’s north side and tied up at the pier beside the Lorcha Dock, where Douglas MacArthur had made his departure in 1942, abandoning the Philippines to the vicious Japanese invaders. A high-speed catamaran from Manila was unloading a mix of Filipino, Asian, and American tourists next to them, where they were being herded into tranvías, open-sided trams that were the main form of transportation on the island.
He made his way through the throngs of eager tourists and joined his men at the van that had been unloaded earlier in the week at the Magellan Sun, along with two Bobcats and other digging equipment, as well as any weapons they might need in the event the police caught on to their scheme.
He donned his yellow work vest and helmet and climbed into the passenger seat of the van. They set off for the south side of Malinta Hill, where the tunnel dig was located, passing a souvenir shop and a bronze statue of MacArthur, smiling and waving, upon his return three years after his escape to Australia. When Locsin got control of the nation, one of his first acts would be to tear down that smug symbol of American colonization.
The thought made him smile, and, for the first time, his rage was at bay. He felt even better when he imagined his swarm of attack drones sinking Juan Cabrillo’s precious ship.
41
MANILA
When one of the Oregon’s two lifeboats reached the Manila dock at noon, Juan met Raven at the gangway. With bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothes, she looked like she’d gotten even less sleep than he had. As soon as she was aboard, the lifeboat cast off and headed back to the Oregon, anchored south of Corregidor in Manila Bay.
“Has there been any ransom demand?” she asked without preamble, her ebony hair blowing in the breeze.
Juan shook his head. “Locsin’s group hasn’t even publicly acknowledged that they have Beth, and they have no way to contact us directly. We found out that Gerhard Brekker is a South African mercenary, but we don’t know how or why he’s involved in all this. It sounds like he thinks that this unnamed shipwreck he mentioned might contain more Typhoon, although if it’s been under the ocean for seventy years, the cargo is likely to have been destroyed long ago. And the fire truck with the meth on board is in police custody, so you hurt Locsin’s smuggling operation badly.”
“What about the helicopter he used to escape with Beth?”
“There’s no way to track it.”
“It’s my fault that she was taken,” Raven said, her hands tightly balled into fists. “I have to get her back.”
“It’s Locsin’s fault, not yours. And we’ll all work together to get her back.”
“How?”
“We have a lead in the search for Locsin.” He told her about the previous night’s operation and the discovery that the Magellan Sun had visited Corregidor several times.
“You think that’s where he’s digging to find more of the Typhoon drug?”
“It makes sense, given Ocampo’s claim that the pills date back to World War Two. Corregidor was the most heavily defended island in the Philippines during the war. If the Japanese wanted a place to develop the drug, they couldn’t have picked a more isolated location.”
Raven nodded. “If I remember my West Point history lessons correctly, many of the tunnels on Corregidor collapsed during the final American assault to retake the island.”
“Corregidor is riddled with tunnels and caves,” Juan said. “Gomez Adams, our helicopter and drone pilot, is getting ready to do an aerial survey of the island and look for any unusual recent activity.”
“I want to be there when you get Locsin. If you try to stop me, I’ll—”
Juan put up his hands in surrender. “I thought you might, so I’m having Eddie prepare some gear and weapons for you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re part of this operation now. “
When they got to the Oregon, where it was anchored south of Corregidor, Juan went straight to the unused cleaning supply closet and led her into the secret bowels of the ship. Even someone as seemingly jaded as Raven had to stop for a moment when she saw the plush carpet, soft lighting, and stunning paintings inside the outwardly decrepit cargo hauler.
“It gets better,” Juan said with a smile. “Come on.”
A full tour of the ship would have to wait. He took her directly to the op center, where Gomez was at his usual spot, piloting the drone that was circumnavigating Corregidor. Juan took his seat while Raven wandered around the high-tech command center with her mouth agape. Max, Linda, and the rest of the bridge crew each nodded to her as she passed, amused at the response of their guest and no doubt reliving their own amazement at seeing the same room for the first time.
“Welcome to the real Oregon,” Juan said.
Raven recovered quickly from her shock and came to stand next to him, staring at the big screen relaying the drone feed.
“You people are full of surprises,” she said. “Does Beth know about all this?”
Juan shook his head. “We like to keep things close to the vest. She probably thinks the artwork we buy with her help is kept in an airless vault. Most of it is, but we like to display some of it on board. Makes the Oregon seem more like a home, which for us it is.”
“You must make a good living.”
“The Corporation is a for-profit enterprise, but we’re also patriots. We only take jobs that are in America’s interests. The fees we charge are compensation for the dangerous work we do. The Oregon has taken some costly hits in the past, and we’ve lost good people along the way. I don’t want to lose Beth, too.”
Raven gave him a brief nod. “Then let’s find Locsin.”
Juan turned to Gomez. “Anything interesting yet?”
“Nothing so far. I started on the north side at the dirt airfield, and I’m traveling counterclockwise around the island. The drone is flying at a thousand feet, but if we notice something interesting, I can zoom in.”
The quadcopter’s camera was currently focused on Topside, where the island’s main artillery batteries were located. Most of Corregidor was heavily forested, with only a few roads connecting the structures and displays making up the Pacific War Memorial.
Gomez narrated whenever he focused on a particular item. “That husk of a building used to be the island’s hospital, at least the one that was above ground. The other hospital was underground in Malinta Hill, which we’ll see in a few minutes.”
The camera panned over to a quarter-mile-long, burned-out structure.
“That’s the old barracks. Used to be the largest in the world. Next to it is the museum. Those little open areas at the ends of the roads are where the old cannons are. Some of them are still intact, but they were disabled long ago.”
Tourists strolled around the attractions, and open-air trams trundled along the roads to shuttle them amongst the sites.
The drone circled around and flew east toward the tail end of the island. The flat area of Bottomside was where the Lorcha Dock was located, to the north. Another pier jutted from the south coast, and a small powerboat was pulled alongside it. “Tourist catamarans and other boats have been going in and out next to the old Lorcha Dock.”
“What about the south dock?”
“Not used commercially, but it’s used occasionally by private charters. There are enough people around that you’d be noticed if you docked there.”
Juan looked at Max. “We may not want to disembark there and draw attention, but it sounds like a good place for a pickup to get off the island. What about the landing?”
“There’s an unused airstrip at the tail end of the island,” Max said. “The tourist trams don’t go there, so we should have some privacy to come ashore. I’ll have the techs get the Gator fueled and ready.”
The drone kept going. Juan’s eye was drawn to a fine cloud of dust rising from a spot on the south side of Malinta Hill.
“I’d say that qualifies as unusual,” Juan said.
“I see it,” Gomez replied. “Zooming in.”
A narrow road could be seen hugging the steep terrain, ending where a dark hole punctured the hill. A van was parked outside, and cables led from a portable generator into the tunnel. A miniature bulldozer, commonly known by the brand name Bobcat, came out to add a load of rocks and dirt to a large pile. When it was finished dumping its load, the Bobcat went back inside.
“I think we have a winner,” Max said.
“Do we have a map of the tunnel system?” Juan asked.
“Pulling it up now.”
Gomez zoomed out, and Max overlaid the tunnel map over Malinta Hill. A twenty-four-foot-wide main tunnel bisected the hill from east to west along the central axis of the island’s tail. Dozens of smaller lateral tunnels extended from the main tunnel, forming a herringbone pattern. Another herringbone went south toward the exact spot where the excavation was taking place.
“Those are called the Navy Tunnels,” Max said. “The whole complex was dug out by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers after World War One, since the Philippines was an American colony at the time. Some of the tunnels were intentionally blown up during the 1945 American invasion by suicidal Japanese Marines and were never reopened. They no longer connect to the main tourist tunnel.”
“We have our destination, then,” Juan said.
“Do you think Locsin is in there?” Raven asked, her eyes focused so sharply they seemed to be piercing the screen.
Juan stood. “Only one way to find out. Time to show you the moon pool.”
42
NEGROS ISLAND
Beth’s eyes fluttered open. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, but sunlight streamed through the tiny window in the room where she had been taken after the helicopter landed.
Everything about the trip had been a blur. The pain in her shoulder from the gunshot wound had been excruciating, and all they’d done to tend to it after dropping off Locsin somewhere in Manila was to wrap it with a cloth to stanch some of the bleeding. Then they’d put a blindfold on her for the remainder of the trip. All she knew was that she had to be somewhere in the Philippines.
When they’d led her from the helicopter into the building, she thought she’d seen the moon overhead, but she could only make out a circular area of stars around it as if the rest of the sky were blotted out by unmoving black clouds. It was such a strange sight, she thought she might have been hallucinating from blood loss.
Before she’d been left alone, she was forced to take two pills. At first, she refused, but the guard threatened to shoot her right then and there if she didn’t. He examined her wound and declared that the bullet had gone in one side of the meat of her shoulder and out the other. Every time he touched it, Beth screamed in agony.
Finally, she could feel herself passing out, either from the trauma or the drug, and she assumed this was it. She was going to die. She accepted her fate and let darkness take her.
But here she was now, still alive. And, oddly, the pain had tapered off to a dull ache. She now realized they must have given her a narcotic or a sedative. She couldn’t move her arm much, but at least the bleeding seemed to have stopped.
She was also famished. She lifted her head up from the thin mattress and saw that there was a tray of food set on the small table next to her. Normally, the spread of fish and strange fruits wouldn’t be all that appetizing to her, but her stomach grumbled loudly when the aroma hit her nose.
She sat up and launched herself at the food, devouring every morsel on the tray as if she were a starving dog. She was so hungry that each bite tasted like the finest entrée from a gourmet restaurant. She washed it all down with a large glass of milk.
With her hunger craving satisfied, she examined the room more thoroughly, though there wasn’t much more to see. The window was glass but too small to climb through. The door was metal. She got up and tried the handle quietly, but it didn’t budge.
Then she heard talking outside. Someone was approaching.
She quickly went back to the bed and lay down, closing her eyes just as the door opened.
She tried not to flinch when she recognized the first voice to speak. It was Tagaan, the man from the Bangkok drug deal.
“It looks like the drug kicked in,” he said to the guard. “She must have passed out again.”
“I didn’t think such a thin woman would be able to eat that much,” the guard replied.
“It’s her body repairing itself. It must be working. We’ll check how she’s healing later this evening.”
Beth felt a charge of fear race down her spine, nearly causing her to shiver in disgust. She remembered now that the pills she’d taken had a cyclone symbol on them. They weren’t given to calm her down. It was the Typhoon drug that Dr. Ocampo had told them about.
Beth normally avoided pharmaceuticals whenever possible, even taking aspirin only when she absolutely had to. And now she was their lab rat. She was terrified about what continued use of the drug might do to her, but what was her alternative? She believed the guard when he said he’d kill her if she didn’t take it. Tagaan wouldn’t be any more lenient.
She had to escape somehow.
“I have to go to the manufacturing building,” Tagaan said. “But I’ll be back later to take her to the paintings. Make sure she’s fed again before then.”
Fed. Like an animal.
Then the word paintings hit her. Plural. Now she felt a thrill at the implication. Was she going to see the missing Gardner paintings? That was definitely a reason to stay alive.
The door closed. She opened her eyes and saw that the tray was gone.
She stood and found her legs to be a bit wobbly. Escape would have to come later. For now, she could at least get a peek at what her surroundings were outside to help plan how she might get away.
She went to the window, and her jaw dropped now that she had a better view outside.
From her vantage point, she could make out only a few squat buildings around a central plaza. But what caused her to gape was the view high above.
Water streamed down from a circular hole at least five hundred feet in the air, where the midday sun was shining through. Her heart sank as the idea of escape was snuffed out with the realization that there were several huge stalactites hanging from the limestone roof that extended so far that she could see no walls.
There was no outside for her to flee into. She was being held captive in a gigantic cavern.
43
BANTAYAN ISLAND ARCHIPELAGO
FIFTEEN MILES NORTHEAST OF NEGROS ISLAND
Gerhard Brekker sat in the driver’s seat of the yacht, one hand resting lazily on the wheel as he massaged his neck with the other. It still ached from the SUV wreck in Manila when he’d hit the air bag. Luckily, all of his men had made it out of the fire truck chase alive, but each of them was recovering from an array of cuts, sprains, and bruises.
The busy ferry and shipping lanes between Manila and Cebu were now five miles behind them, and a low uninhabited island lay dead ahead, far from the normal tourist dive sites. No wonder that the Pearsall hadn’t been discovered until now.
The sea was calm, but the weather reports forecast that Typhoon Hidalgo had a fifty percent chance of passing over this very spot in two days, so they’d have to make short work of their recovery and demolition operation. Since their negotiations with Locsin had fallen apart, Brekker had decided to investigate the wreck himself. If there was more of the drug on board, he’d take it and sell it to the highest bidder. If he couldn’t find any in the time he had, he’d wire the sunken destroyer to blow up and hold it for ransom after he reconnected with Locsin and told him where it was.
One of Brekker’s men rushed into the cockpit and said, “We’ve lost Alastair Lynch.”
Brekker whipped a
round and glared at the man who was supposed to be guarding Lynch’s door. He’d kept the Interpol official around in case he provided any other info about Locsin’s operations. So far, the only thing he’d given them was headaches from his periodic bouts of caterwauling during moments of consciousness.
“He escaped?” Brekker demanded.
“He’s dead.”
Brekker eased the throttle back to idle and went down to find the door wide open and two men milling around the cabin, looking at the body sprawled on the blood-soaked bed.
Brekker said, “What happened?”
The closer man shrugged. “Looks like his hand became so skinny that he was able to pull it out of the cuff. He found a pair of scissors in the drawer and slit his wrists with them. Guess we’re not getting our damage deposit back.”
Lynch’s corpse was a mere shadow of the brawny man they’d captured in Bangkok. His ropey muscles had atrophied, and his shirtless torso was so gaunt that Brekker could count the ribs. Lynch’s body had literally consumed itself. Even if he hadn’t committed suicide, he would have been dead in a day or two anyway. The pain must have been unbearable.
“Wrap him up in the sheet,” Brekker said.
“Same treatment we gave Polten and his friend?”
Brekker nodded. They’d disposed of the two American chemists’ bodies by weighting them down and dumping them overboard during the trip from Manila.
He went up on deck. And, several minutes later, the men brought up the body with the bloody sheet around it. It was fastened with a nylon rope, and a kettlebell weight was lashed to Lynch’s feet.
“With that much blood to attract the sharks,” Brekker said, “they’ll make short work of him.”
He looked around to see if there were any witnesses but shouldn’t have bothered. The only visible ship was a ferry on the horizon.
“Do it,” Brekker said, and the men tossed the body into the water. It immediately sank from view.
Typhoon Fury Page 24