by Tom Anthony
“This day will start the revolution.”
“You cannot have a revolution without the people. Why do you think all these people will join up with us?”
“Look how many men in the street you see wearing Che Guevara tee shirts. They will join.”
“These poor people have nothing to lose. They will all join us when they know they’re fighting Zionism and Yankeeism.” Lateef did not seem concerned that he was soon to kill many of his countrymen indiscriminately.
Mahir answered, “You make good sense to me. The struggle is not just about autonomy here. We must have true Islamic republics everywhere, under the laws of the Koran.”
“Yes,” Lateef agreed. “We must do what we will do today not only as the Abu Sayaf of Mindanao, although we will profit greatly ourselves, but also for the children of the hopeless. We will decide what they need, and we will provide for them.”
Mahir and Lateef were ready.
Thomas Thornton and Elaiza Otakan had moved to stand in front of the Gingerbread baked goods store next to Banco de Davao on Monteverde Street, where early parade observers were eating sugary bread and drinking Nescafe. The customers threw paper wrappers and napkins into the street as soon as they consumed their snacks. The hot breeze dried out the debris and blew it around their feet. The two were not concealed, but they were not too obvious leaning against a post where some shade was offered from the cover of a narrow balcony above. Thornton always stood out in Davao City because of his white skin and light hair, gray now mixed with blond. He contrasted with any surroundings—crowds of dark Dabawenyos or dusty architecture. The first marching band passed them playing “As the Caissons Go Rolling Along,” probably not knowing it as the official song of the U.S. Army Artillery; it was an easy tune to march to. Teen-aged majorettes, not yet grown into their long legs, gamboled in flossy short purple and white skirts, the colors of their school, the College of the Immaculate Conception, coincidentally also the colors of the waling-waling orchid.
During the parade and before the horse fights in the afternoon, street hawkers did brisk business selling fresh durian, the fruit unique to Mindanao that smells like rotten grapefruit mixed with rancid cheese, and has a unique, almost sweet, indefinable taste. When the spiny husk is cracked, men, women and children run toward the scent. Some foreigners like it OK; some can’t stand it; but it is an authentic essence of Mindanao, and its aroma now mingled with wood smoke and flower fragrances along the route.
Morris O’Neil would not open the Lady Love until noon, and the real business would not start until after dark. He was surprised to see Hank Starke out and about, and especially surprised that the twins were with him at such an early hour, but he assumed they would have time for a nap after the parade, and Kadayawan was too spectacular to be missed if you were in town. He had to admit the twins looked radiant today; perhaps he could generate a little promo for his place with them. He bought two small masks, just large enough to cover their eyes, and bright green to resonate with the green sleeves image they projected at the club. He gave the masks to them saying, “Here girls, get into the mood and add to the atmosphere.”
“Thanks, I’ll wear it.” Jade was openly pleased. “I can accessorize.” The deep green reflected off her jade necklace.
Morris had not seen the string of jade gems before. “Good idea not to wear something so obviously expensive in the club: the clientele would expect you to give them tips,” he teased.
Jasmine wore no jewelry at all but, like her twin, looked delicious in the early morning sun in a bright red, tight-fitting dress and high heels accented with a necklace of fragrant, pure white jasmine, so appropriate for this day.
Morris could hardly resist a mock lecherous and conspiratorial stage whisper to Starke: “I can only imagine those two wearing nothing but green stones and white flowers.”
Starke got him back. “Sometimes I don’t have to imagine.” He invited the three to join him at a table outside Beau’s Café for a cappuccino. Some of the other customers, especially the males, nodded signs of recognition, or perhaps mere approval, as the girls more sashayed than walked to their seats.
Morris saw Thornton and Elaiza standing on the opposite side of the street and gave them a thumbs-up sign. The street between them was filling up.
Elaiza always looked different from the other women, Thornton thought, comparing her to the girls with Morris. She could wear a miniskirt or hot pants and still not be mistaken for a japayuki—the girls kept by some old Japanese executives for their lengthy “business trips” in Mindanao. Japanese were hardly noticed, unless they had such a female with them. Everyone noticed japayukis on the street, partly because of the way they overdressed. The bricklayers and carpenters all noticed Elaiza when she walked by too, but in a different way. She was dressed hot, but greeted them in a way that was not provocative. They liked her when she jogged by their construction sites in the morning and recognized her later when she went out to dinner with Thornton.
“If they put an explosive device in this crowd, they’ll kill hundreds,” Thornton thought out loud.
“At least.” Elaiza furrowed her brow. “We would have to check out every object in the parade concealing a volume of more than a cubic meter, I suppose.”
“Yeah, plus anything along the route or in the assembly areas large enough to conceal explosives. The local police will be swaggering around in full uniform, but I think they’re too polite to ask questions.” Thornton was not impressed with the security precautions.
Elaiza was more hopeful. “One good thing,” she said, “is that Task Force Davao has kept an eye on everything coming into town from the indigenous regions as they cross the checkpoints entering the town proper.”
“Big deal. They have a few guys with guns watching a dozen big trucks a minute drive by their outposts,” Thornton said. “Those checkpoints only function with a military attitude after an incident, then they shut down all traffic and search every vehicle, when it’s too late and after the insurgents are long gone and back in the boonies.”
“We can’t do much about it, so stay suspicious,” Elaiza warned him unnecessarily, and checked her butt pack where she kept the TIAM with her fatigue uniform and field gear, just in case.
“Who are those hefty ladies in street clothes on the reviewing stand? Why aren’t any of them in costume?” Thornton asked Elaiza.
“It’s beneath them to wear costumes; they’re the sponsors of the main event. The one with her hair tied back is the chairperson of the cut flower export group, and the one beside her is the head of the dried fish export commission. They put this all together to promote the export of cut flowers, mostly orchids and roses, and products from the agriculture and fishing industries. They don’t want to be thought of as natives and so have adopted leftover Spanish names and customs.” Elaiza was not impressed with the dignitaries. “They put lotion on their faces to make them white. Do you think the Turk is here?”
“Yes. Somewhere. If he blows something up in Davao City, it will be the biggest statement the Abu Sayaf will be able to make for months; the next best choice would be around Christmas. He doesn’t want to wait that long. Look, the parade is starting to move again.”
“Oh, you should like this, I hear the agong.” Elaiza rose up to stand on her toes, stretching her lean calf muscles taut; Thornton noticed.
Dak a dak dak boom boom, dak a dak dak boom boom. The musicians struck their sets of nine cast bronze agongs, time set by the largest agong, the bandir, as big as a cooking pot, the lesser agongs as small as teapots. Brass cymbals and hollow wood drums covered with carabao hide generated a combination of crashing and thumping sounds and the enthusiastic but unrehearsed musicians intertwined the emotions of sex, anger, hate, and jealousy. Women danced as they moved forward, followed by the musicians. The men joined them and emotions intensified. Every step had a meaning and importance: life, love, planting, and harvest. The beauty of the women was striking: mestizas, mixes of Spanish and tribal bloods mak
ing the next generations of mocha beauties taller, but inheriting the bright white teeth of their native ancestors. The shiny golden brown figures with long black hair made the parade sparkle. Some waved to the spectators from their perches on the floats; others danced in the street with the musicians and marchers.
“Oh, oh, I see a problem,” Elaiza said suddenly. “There are only a few floats moving forward now as I watch. More will be coming, but there are also lots of big parchment figures being carried along by the marchers. There must be sufficient volume, more than a cubic meter, of empty space available inside them.”
“Let’s be more careful of the really big ones, supported by some undercarriage or on a vehicle: disregard those being carried by one or two people. Explosives would be too heavy to carry the entire route. If our suspects are here, they’ll be after more than taking out a few people in a suicide mission.”
From the Maragusan Valley, the source of the Agusan in the north, came the Mansakas. The Tagabaawa were in from Mount Apo, just outside of Davao City to the west, and Manobos from the Compostela Valley, including Pedro Otaza and his brothers in the city with their families for these few days, all happy to have the chance to be involved, and especially the Mandayas, the most numerous of the local tribes from the areas immediately east of Davao City and extending down the far peninsula to Mati and hence Samal Island. Atas and Obos were lining up. B’laans and the Muslim and almost-Muslim tribes like the Kalagans, whose religion is a mix of the Islamic teachings of the Koran and primitive tribal customs, added their distinctive rhythms. Other tribes having varying mixes of Christian and Muslim beliefs and legends formed into their parade positions. All together, the street dancers constituted a primordial mixture of color and sound, fueled by tribal superstitions.
Elaiza saw Pedro and his four Manobo brothers carrying painted and feathered bamboo sticks used in their dancing. She knew that sharp bolo knives were concealed inside the hollow poles and that the native wooden carvings strapped to their backs for decoration were in reality heavy arrows that could be thrown as spears for short distances. But today they would not have a chance to use either; the threat was of a different nature.
Thornton and Elaiza both saw it simultaneously and didn’t need to say anything to each other. One large float moved forward on wheels, a towering waling-waling purple goddess of the harvest, offering a symbolic durian a meter in diameter; a sphere of golden flowers was stuck into chicken wire that, despite its apparent lightness, bounced and jumped, stretching taut the steel cable holding it. Suddenly the float stopped in front of the reviewing stand and the driver dismounted to look under the vehicle as if he was attempting to fix a problem, but he rose from the undercarriage, turned, and walked away from the route of the parade at a brisk pace. The sphere of flowers swung back and forth on its wire and then, just in front of the plump ladies sitting with the mayor, the flower goddess and her durian globe both instantaneously disintegrated with steel shards and orchid blossoms alike propelled from the center of the sphere and then from the entire vehicle, moving outward at great speed and with the silent beauty of an exploding star at the edge of the universe. The sound and the shock wave hit, and shrapnel shredded dancers, the elegant ladies on the stand and Mayor Fuentes.
Pedro’s team was not touched, and their first reaction was to turn immediately to help the injured. Thornton’s first reaction was to tend to Elaiza, slumped behind the concrete post where they had been standing, stunned, some spots of blood on her arm.
“I’m fine, I’ll assemble our team behind the bank. Where’s Pedro?” She spoke urgently to Thornton.
“He’s on his way here, I see him.” Thornton held her, but looked around, alert to whatever would come next. What he had seen shocked him; the attackers had exploded the dynamite device directly in front of the mayor’s reviewing stand, the ball exploding as it swung through his line of sight. Mayor Fuentes was more than just the mayor of a city, he was the mayor of the largest city in Asia, by surface area if not by population, and he was an important and powerful national leader. Through his five terms as mayor, Christians, Muslims and others regarded him as a man of the people. He had earned great respect for his policies, his implementation of modern methods and for himself as a humanitarian. Manila had looked upon Fuentes as the Governor of Mindanao.
Thornton and Elaiza saw body parts scattered like so much hamburger in streaks radiating out from the explosion’s center. The aftermath of this catastrophic event was chaos. He squeezed Elaiza’s hand and said, “See that taller man throwing down his mask? Why is he so calm? It has to be the Turk. Get to Sergeant Starke. I’m following that guy.” Thornton was already moving.
“No. If you’re going after him, I’m coming with you.” Elaiza stood up, running with him.
“You’ll be better with your uncle than with a white guy in this situation. Give me your iPod!”
“No! I’m keeping it from now on; it’s my job. And I’m going with you. It’s only calibrated for me. I can use it to signal our position.” Elaiza was not going to be dissuaded, and there was no time to debate.
“Then hurry! Let’s see where he goes.” Thornton grabbed her arm and they ran together from the site of the explosion through puddles of blood, amid pain and confusion.
17
Pursuit
Even before the debris from the explosion settled, Mahir considered his immediate assignment with the Abu Sayaf hit team successful, and not just for the message it sent. The unusually high death toll for a single terrorist bomb attack would be a plus, but he also considered the event to be the start of the larger mission, the beginning of a new and historic jihad to turn the island of Mindanao into an independent and fundamentalist Islamic nation. Kumander Ali, the leader of the Abu Sayaf for all of Mindanao, would be pleased and perhaps would honor him when they met.
Moving away from the blast, Mahir and the rest of the hit team walked slowly but deliberately, looking straight ahead without curiosity. The horrified spectators and participants ran either toward the sound of the explosion, or directly away from it, depending on their individual dispositions; none of the innocent bystanders were just walking. Mahir discarded the mask he had been wearing and instantly became just another pedestrian, not much different looking than the others, except a bit taller, as he reached the stolen jeepney.
But Thornton had seen him. Some members of the terrorist strike force following along the parade route as back-ups had walked at the same pace as the parade until the malevolent float reached the reviewing stand and exploded. But when, immediately after the explosion, five people suddenly dropped the parade masks they were wearing and began moving at a purposeful pace converging toward a single point, it made them stand out, obvious within the crowd to Thornton. Although they tried to take on the visages of casual observers or participants of the parade, to look like five innocent people all wearing black jeans and shirts with various logos, their movement toward a common destination directly outward from the destroyed float gave them away. Thornton saw them as a cohesive group and deduced from their purposeful actions that they were the perpetrators. The taller one had to be Mahir Hakki.
He pulled Elaiza along and followed the Abu Sayaf at a distance, trying not to be noticed and staying in the early afternoon shadows as the enemy attack team withdrew.
Thornton saw Ugly Maria calmly approach a parked vehicle across the street and swing her heft onto the back of the jeepney, its rusted license plate numbers further obscured by strategically placed lumps of mud. She was the last to return before the Abu Sayaf squad departed the city, heading south back to the staging area. Harold, one of Lateef’s men, drove. He smoked a cigarette, blew the horn from time to time for no reason, and together they looked about the same as the other loads of people trying to get out of the general area as expeditiously as possible. They needed the jeepney for transportation into and out of Davao City, but the false image of normality could last only a short distance. Such smaller jeepneys would not normally commut
e a long way; it was too far for such a smoke-pumping, inefficient vehicle in normal commercial operation. Just after Toril, they pulled into the Lake Forest Resort, where they were still registered and where they held Lito, their hostage from the cement factory, who had been uncomfortably sitting on a sack of cash while the hit squad carried out the attack. Lateef had decided to keep Lito with them, at least during the time they would be active near his village. Lito was terrified, but cooperated. Most of the time Abu Sayaf hostages were eventually released, he thought, and he had many Muslim friends in his village, including one of them who was now holding him by force. Surely this could not be a kidnapping for ransom plot, as he obviously had no money. So he couldn’t understand what was going on. Abu Sayaf irregulars Jun and Bong had guarded him at the resort while the hit squad had done their business in Davao City, and the two warriors were now well-rested and ready to assume their key roles in the move on toward Digos later that night. For now, they would take the early evening guard while the returning attack team rested following their bumpy withdrawal from the attack.
Thornton had seen the loaded jeepney depart as sirens began to sound behind him. It was good that Elaiza was with him, if she could keep up. She had the iPod and could connect with the embassy to report positions and get information. He asked, “How badly are you hurt?”
“Really, not at all. Just some cuts from glass or metal that was thrown around. Not serious.” She was easily staying with him as they walked briskly.
Because he was a white guy and an obvious foreigner, Thornton was able to stop a taxi on the outskirts of the city. The driver would expect a big tip from a foreigner during a moment of such urgency; news about the blast was already on the radio. Thornton told him, “Just drive, I’ll point.”
This seemed to make perfect sense to the cab driver, assuming that his passenger could more easily direct than explain where to go and to get out of the area.