Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  The dock led to a well-trod path, which took them into a tin roofed fish market and the street beyond. A white taxi was waiting. Dalisay slid in beside the driver which left Greer to sit in back. A well-dressed woman was waiting there. She wrinkled her nose. “You stink.”

  Greer’s sense of smell had been numbed by weeks of life on a fishing boat. “Sorry about that,” Greer said. “I’m looking forward to a shower and some clean clothes.”

  “They’re waiting for you,” Dalisay assured him. “You must look like a journalist, and smell like one as well.”

  The cab followed a turning-twisting path through the streets of Bagao to the far side of town and a little hotel with a big name. The “El Grande” was two stories tall and, judging from the number of windows out front, home to no more than a dozen rooms.

  Dalisay didn’t pay prior to getting out which suggested that the driver was a member of the underground. A mangy dog was asleep on the front porch. Greer had to step over the animal in order to follow Mary inside. The lobby was delightfully cool. AC! Greer had damned near forgotten what it felt like.

  The man behind the front desk kept his eyes focused on his cellphone as the threesome trooped past him, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and made their way to Room 003. Why bother with the zeros? Greer wondered, as Mary led them inside. “The bathroom is over there,” she said pointedly. “I hope the underwear fits. You’re a big man.”

  Dalisay grinned. “I have to go. Mary will take over from here.”

  “What about later on?” Greer wanted to know. “What about the plane?”

  “It will be waiting,” Dalisay assured him. “As will I.”

  Greer took the briefcase filled with guns into the bathroom and put the pistol within reach. The shower stall was small, and the water was tepid, but the pressure was good. Greer spent the better part of fifteen minutes lathering, rinsing, and toweling off.

  The underwear Mary had promised was there still in its original packaging. Greer ripped the plastic open. The boxers were labeled XL but a bit too tight. Ditto the V-necked tee shirt. But they were clean, and Greer was happy to have them.

  The pilot didn’t have a robe, which left him with no choice but to leave the bathroom in his underwear, gun in hand. Mary was sitting in the room’s only chair, hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes widened slightly as Greer appeared.

  A shirt, tie, and suit were laid out on the bed. A highly polished pair of black shoes were on the floor next to the dresser. Mary glanced at her watch. “Get dressed. The prison is an hour away and, once we arrive, we’ll have to go through security.”

  “Tell me how this is going to go down,” Greer said, as he examined the shirt.

  “We will arrive at the front gate, identify ourselves, and present our IDs,” Mary answered. “Then we will be taken into the prison where we’ll be searched. According to our informant that could consist of a pat down, or if the guards are suspicious, a more intrusive search.

  “Once that process is over, we will be escorted to the cell where the Americans are being held. You will have thirty minutes to interview them. Once the session is over, we will exit through the main gate. A private car will be waiting. Here’s a brand-new cell phone,” Mary added, as she tossed the device onto the bed. “You can use it to record the interviews, and take pictures, to the extent that the guards allow you to do so.”

  Greer was looking in the mirror mounted over the dresser as he tied his tie. He could see Mary behind him. “Are you wanted by the police?”

  She frowned. “No. That’s one of the reasons why I was chosen for this mission.”

  “But what about later on?” Greer wanted to know, as he turned to look at her. “There will be cameras in the prison. Even if everything goes perfectly, and we leave without incident, the shit will hit the fan. Have you considered that?”

  Something changed in her eyes. “Yes. Of course.”

  “And?”

  “And I will hide.”

  “Maybe you should come with us. The flight will be risky. But, if the authorities connect the stolen plane with our visit to the prison, staying on Luzon will be even riskier.”

  Mary’s eyes searched his face. “Why do you care?”

  “I care because you’re risking your life for me,” Greer answered simply. “And for a common cause. So how ‘bout it? Will you come?”

  “Maybe,” Mary said. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You do that,” Greer said, as he pulled the pants on. “Is there any chance we can grab something to eat on the way?”

  “Yes,” Mary answered. “We’ll stop at a McDo.”

  “A McDo?”

  “A McDonalds. That’s what we call them here.”

  Once Greer was dressed, they left the hotel. Another one of the ubiquitous white taxies was waiting. Greer’s nine was tucked into his waistband and the briefcase was at his side. When they stopped at McDonalds it was Mary who went in to get the food.

  Even though he was inside a car Greer felt very exposed as the minutes ticked by. The driver was surfing the internet as a police car pulled in next to them. Greer pulled the pistol and waited to see what the cops would do. The driver got out, paused to hitch his gun belt up, then made his way to the front door. Mary passed him going the other way.

  Once Mary was in the taxi, she gave each man his food. “Let’s hit the road,” Greer said, as he accepted a bag. “Now.”

  Mary passed the order to the driver, who was already eating his McRice burger, as he backed out. Greer’s bag contained a double cheeseburger and a large coke. The food was delicious after weeks on the fishing boat.

  After passing through the outskirts of town the taxi followed a winding road through a succession of villages, between carefully tended fields of green, and over rushing rivers.

  Greer saw very little of it however because he was watching their six, trying to anticipate what would go down at the prison, and wondering if he was batshit crazy. The obvious answer was, “Hell yes.”

  The sun was beginning to sink in the west as the taxi turned off the highway and onto the road that led to the prison. What Greer saw surprised him. There were walls, yes. Plus, an inner fence topped with concertina wire and two guard towers.

  But a building that sat perched on the rise beyond looked like a Hilton Hotel. The roof was red, the walls were white, and palm trees lined the drive. “Appearances can be deceiving,” Mary said. “What you see is what President Costas wants you to see. The truth is hidden within.

  “About 20 percent of the prisoners in Filipino prisons die each year. Many of the deaths result from pulmonary tuberculosis. The others can be attributed to gang fights and summary executions.”

  As Greer took the information in, he realized that his mission was even more urgent than he’d thought. Unless the Allies launched a rescue mission right away, the POWs might die before they could be sent to China.

  The taxi came to a halt in front of a drop-down barrier which was sandwiched between two stone guard houses. Both structures had slit-style windows through which weapons could be fired.

  Mary got out of the taxi with some paperwork clutched in her hand. A noncom spoke to her and consulted a clipboard. More words were exchanged. Mary came over to speak through the open window. “So far so good. Leave everything other than your passport, wallet and cellphone behind. The taxi will turn around and go back the way we came.”

  With my weapons, Greer thought. That sucks.

  But it was too late to back out. He slipped the nine into the briefcase which he placed on the floor. Then, with a big smile on his face, he got out of the car. The noncom looked him up and down. “Good afternoon. Your passport please.”

  Greer gave it over, and the police officer made a show out of comparing the recently taken photo, to the American’s face. Then he gave the passport back. “Thank you. We are required to search you. I’m sure you understand.”

  Greer stood with legs spread and arms extended as a second guard scanned
him with a wand and a third administered a pat-down. Meanwhile, a female cop was running her hands up and down Mary’s slim frame.

  Greer could imagine doing the same thing. And admonished himself for thinking about sex instead of the task in front of him. What the hell is wrong with you? he wondered. Belay that shit.

  After clearing the security check the visitors were invited to board a nine-seat van which, judging from the mesh covered windows and the U-bolts attached to the floor, was used to transport prisoners. Greer felt his stomach muscles tighten as the vehicle passed between neatly mowed swaths of grass, past a statue honoring a guy on a horse, and up to the prison.

  Once they were closer, the building no longer resembled a hotel. Hotels don’t have sharpshooters positioned on their roofs, windows protected by bars, and surveillance cameras.

  A man in a business suit was waiting to greet them. “Hello!” he said brightly. “My name is Carlos Ruiz. I’m an attaché with the Department of Foreign Affairs. It will be my pleasure to facilitate your visit with the American criminals.”

  The remarks were directed to Greer as if Mary didn’t exist. “You are Mr. Noel Zondi. I read the opinion piece you wrote about the war, China’s philanthropy on the African continent, and the need for your country to align itself with the Axis. We couldn’t agree more.”

  That was the first Greer had heard of the opinion piece that someone else had written. He smiled as they shook hands. “Thank you. May I call you Carlos?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ruiz replied. “And I shall call you Noel. Come … Please don’t be disturbed by the conditions inside. I assure you that the crowding is only temporary, and will be resolved the moment new beds become available.”

  Greer had to give Ruiz credit. The bastard was an accomplished liar. They followed their guide through a door into a lobby. Two heavily armed guards were waiting for them. After showing their IDs the visitors were led through the reception area to a steel door. Metal rattled as the barrier slid from left to right.

  The first thing Greer noticed was the overwhelming miasma that filled the air. And no wonder, hundreds of prisoners were packed into cells intended for fifty.

  Some stood. But many lay like corpses on the filthy floor too tired, too sick, or too dispirited to rise. The combined stench of their unwashed bodies and the overflowing toilets made Greer gag. He took pictures anyway, hoping that they would help convince the chain of command to stage a rescue operation.

  Then the yelling started. It was directed at Mary in English, Tagalog, and other languages that Greer didn’t recognize. All the shouted commentary had to do with Mary’s appearance and the things the men wanted to do to her. To her credit Mary remained expressionless, her head up, and her eyes forward.

  That was when Ruiz yelled something to a guard. The man stopped, drew his pistol, and shot a prisoner in the face. Blood and gore splattered those around the dead man. The press of bodies held him vertical for a moment. Then, as the living hurried to distance themselves from the dead, the body slumped to the floor. The shouting stopped.

  Total silence reigned, and hundreds of eyes stared at the visitors, as they followed the passageway to the far end of the cavernous room. “Sorry about that,” Ruiz said breezily. “The boys get a little out of hand sometimes. The American war criminals are in the last cell.”

  Greer snapped a series of photos as they arrived in front of a large cell with only three men in it. Greer recognized the emaciated faces right away. Ames was the tallest, Symons was the thinnest, and Wix had a look of astonishment on his face. “Holy shit, guys … That’s …”

  Wix wasn’t able to get the rest of the words out because Ames put a size 12 on the smaller pilot’s foot and interrupted him. “Who the fuck are you people?”

  “My name is Carlos Ruiz,” the diplomat said, “and this is Noel Zondi. He writes for the South African Express newspaper.”

  “The Chinese province of South Africa, huh?” Symons replied. “Remember this Mr. Zondi. “What goes around comes around. That’s all I have to say.”

  Greer held the phone out to record the conversation. “Do you have a message for the families of the people you killed? An apology perhaps?”

  “Yeah,” Ames said. “I have a message for China … Fuck you.”

  Greer was busy snapping photos. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourselves?”

  “Eat shit and die,” Wix said. “How’s that?”

  Greer turned to Ruiz. “I’ve got enough. Once I file my story the people of South Africa will get a firsthand look at the baby killers.”

  Symons rattled the bars. “Step in here asshole! So I can kick your lying ass!”

  Ames pulled Symons back, and Ruiz turned to Greer. “Please send me a copy of your story.”

  “I will,” Greer lied. “And the people of South Africa thank you.” Was he laying it on too thick?

  Apparently not. Ruiz smiled blandly and turned to the guards. “We’re ready to leave.”

  None of the prisoners made a sound as the visitors left. Greer noticed that the dead body was still sprawled on the floor. The van was idling outside. Greer wanted to relax but couldn’t. Not until he was safe in Indonesia.

  It took what seemed like an hour, but was only a matter of minutes, to reach the main gate. A car was waiting for them. Not a taxi, but a black Mercedes. Dalisay was inside. And when Greer began to describe the visit, the underground leader shook his head. “You’re here,” Dalisay said. “That’s all I need to know.”

  It seemed that Dalisay didn’t want Greer to talk in front of the driver and that made sense. What the man didn’t know he couldn’t reveal. And he knew enough already.

  Cars passed. Lights could be seen. The Mercedes passed through a small town, slowed, and took a righthand turn. Greer felt a rising sense of excitement as the limo approached a small airport. The dimly lit terminal was the size of a two car garage and, except for a two-engine passenger plane, the rest of the aircraft were small prop jobs.

  Greer made eye contact with Mary. She was seated across from him with her back to the driver. “So, what’s it going to be? Yes? Or no?”

  Dalisay had no idea what Greer was talking about, but Mary knew. She sat as he’d seen her before, with hands clasped, her eyes locked with his. “The answer is yes.”

  Greer smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Then, in an aside to Dalisay, Greer said, “Mary’s coming with us.”

  If Dalisay had any doubts about the arrangement he left them unspoken.

  The car jerked to a stop. Dalisay thanked the driver and got out. The others did likewise. The Mercedes pulled away. “That’s the one,” Dalisay said, as he pointed to a plane. “I hope you know how to fly it.”

  The plane was half lit by the spill from a pole-mounted light. Greer recognized it right away. The Cessna 172 Skyhawk was very similar to the one he’d flown as a kid. Tens of thousands of the single-engine, fixed-wing aircraft had been manufactured since the first one had taken flight in 1955. In fact, based on the plane’s longevity, it was easily the most successful aircraft in history.

  But was the 172 in good shape? Were the tanks full? Did it have a functioning radio? Those questions and more crowded into Greer’s mind.

  “The plane is, or was, the property of a local drug dealer called Johnny Wong,” Dalisay said. “His nickname was Kilo Wong. So, if you use the radio, be sure to use that name.”

  “‘Was the property?’” Greer inquired.

  “Mr. Wong had an unfortunate accident earlier today,” Dalisay replied. “But the authorities don’t know that yet.”

  “So, they’ll think Wong is fleeing the country,” Greer concluded.

  “Exactly,” Dalisay agreed. “Thereby protecting your fake identity.”

  “Alright,” Greer said. “Wong it is. Let’s see what we have.”

  Greer circled the 172 looking for problems, didn’t spot any, and entered the cockpit. The key, thank God, was in the ignition.


  Greer checked to make sure that the Avionics Master switches were off. And that was important because, when the engine began to crank, the system’s voltage would be low. But when the engine started, and the alternator kicked in, there would be a momentary power surge. A surge that could fry the 172’s electronics.

  The next item on his mental check list was the fuel selector valve located at the center of the cockpit on the floor. It was set to “both,” which was ideal, since Greer had no need to monitor the wing tanks separately.

  Then it was time to pull the throttle out a quarter of an inch, set the mixture to “Idle Cutoff,” and turn the Master Switch on.

  Greer checked to ensure that all the avionics were off and pushed the mixture to “Full Rich.” At that point he opened the door long enough to instruct his passengers to enter.

  Finally, it was a simple matter to set the carb to “cold,” pump the primer a few times, and toe the brakes. The ignition key turned easily, and the engine started with a satisfying roar.

  That was when Greer eyeballed the fuel gauge and saw that the plane had about 90 percent of its forty-gallon total capacity onboard. That equated to something like 550 miles worth of range. Not nearly enough to get the job done. Greer had done his homework on the fishing boat. And, according to the captain’s charts, the closest airport in Indonesia was Miangas on the island of Karakelong. That was 900 plus miles away.

  It couldn’t be helped however. All Greer could do was try. “I hope both of you know how to swim,” Greer said, as he released the brakes. “Here goes nothing.”

  Greer hadn’t flown a prop plane in years. But the old habits were waiting. It’s like riding a bike, Greer thought. You never forget.

  Once he had sufficient ground speed Greer pulled the yoke back and felt the 172 lift off. It wasn’t like being shot off a carrier … But it felt good nevertheless.

  Greer’s plan was to fly south over Marinduque island in the Sibuyan Sea. From there they would overfly the islands of Mindoro, Panay, Negros and Mindanao, before arriving over the Celebes Sea, where they would have to ditch.