Title Page

STORM CITY







BOOK ONE

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons, names of places, or events, among many others, is purely coincidence. Everything in this work emanated entirely from the imagination of the author.

Dedication

This work is dedicated to all the aid and rescue workers all over the world with special mention to the:

• Red Cross
• Red Crescent
• UN High Commission on Refugees
• United Nations Relief and Works Agency
• World Health Organization

and all the countless other individuals, groups and organizations who have never stopped providing humanitarian assistance to their fellow men during and in the aftermath of man-made and natural calamities and disasters.

May God bless you and may your tribe increase!

May God grant grace to all the victims you serve!

And may people always realize that you need
that budget and those donations in kind badly.

Prologue

PROLOGUE

THE SALUAG INCIDENT
July 27, 2002 1200H

MARIKO YASHIDA was in her mid-20s. Many would call her handsome, because she had a boyishness about her. Her clipped short hair reminds one of young teenage boys engrossed with puppy love and learning how to say "I like you."

She was neither erotic nor invited such thoughts in the opposite sex. She often wore her blouse and trousers, like today, in a very restrained way. Her choice colors were light brown, sky blue and she put on as little make up as she can. There was nothing unfeminine nor masculine about it; it was just simply that she didn't like wasting time for chores or activities she had lined up for the day painting her face.

People gravitate toward her though. That was because they quickly get along well with her, or at least that is what they think. Mariko had that unique muted, gentle effect upon everyone.

She simply could make anyone, just about anyone, feel at ease.

Mariko’s hands went up to her face. She was almost about to nibble on her fingernails, but her better sense took over; she retracted the hand at once.

She had a happy childhood. While her mother worked away from home, sometimes she thought going up to the ends of the world when she was a kid, everyone was there to fill up for her mom's sometime absences. Her dad most of all, always gave her a sense of security. For this reason, many people described her as serene, a calming presence and a very subtle person.

While deep inside she knew she would be comfortable in hip hop getups, or funky or even punk wear, as many kids in Japan had tried once or more than once in their lives, she often went out of the house wearing something subdued.

She never tried not to be in complicated situations, in fact she longed -- no yearned was the better term -- for them. Frequently, she would be shocked at herself saying, "Today, I'd look for something dangerous to plunge into!" Of course, that never happened but sometimes she would get into a little bind and never felt scared just because. Of course, she and many other Japanese knew, it was easy to find something dangerous in the red light districts or some other dinghy spot in Japan where they practice BSDM to the extremes and nearly or sometimes even actually, kill the objects of their desire.

In all of her twenty five years, though, there was nothing like this. She was never confronted by so much foul smelling blood, bile, human feces and decaying flesh blackened by the elements — neither so much as been near it. There were too many corpses she had to come to terms with, reeking of a powerful stench that upset her beyond her sense of smell. It touched something deep within her that she couldn’t put her finger on.

This tableau met her and fellow members of the International Committee of Red Cross (ICRC) contingent, first to respond on the dreary landscape of the island of Saluag, along Sibutu Pass, southwestern most in the Philippine archipelago. Her very first brush with true to life horror. She passed the stage of graduating from the guidelines, the stories and the anecdotes she read in her Emergency Medical Technician’s Manuals and all the reference materials she and her fellow trainees had conscientiously studied.

She was standing at the passenger’s side of a gray military version of the Toyota Land Cruiser mini truck. The truck was now a Field Litter Ambulance (FLA) of the Air Force. Here at the site, the ambulance was on loan to the Red Cross.

She looked up – as if to say a prayer and saw Philippine Air Force Major Ramon Signes – who was leading the security complement in behalf of the Philippine Government as he panned across the scene, highly intelligent eyes assessing the scene.

Mariko considered silently, clearly, this was the only deliberate massacre of its magnitude that happened in the last thirty years in Ramon’s country. Her own had its share of bloodletting. All those wars between the kingdoms before Japan finally became one nation. Her eyes watered taking in the sight of more than a hundred eighty bundled corpses. A female body, the only one farthest from the rest – about two hundred meters away was visibly holding with her left hand a strange looking knife.

The road up ahead revealed a light blue painted lightweight balloon-lift, single-wing and single-engine wide body passenger aircraft with extended passenger room. No scratches, neither alterations nor any other defects were on the outside of the aircraft. It was not, however, untouched. Farther ahead, were what remained of another aircraft of still unknown type and make, all gutted up. Mariko slowly alighted from the FLA and started to feel odd about something she could not place: Something was wrong. Definitely wrong. As she joined her fellow Red Cross volunteers, she vowed to find out what it was.

Mariko wandered away from the disentangled, warped mass of bodies in front of her - somewhere deep inside her sickened by what she was experiencing. Indeed, what she had seen was not enough. The disfigured, headless female, all shot up with lead from her legs to her neck beyond the heap beckoned her. Besides the deep punctured injuries, the body showed a few expertly delivered hack wounds from a sharp bolo - severing her head from her body. She appeared to have been executed with impunity. Pieces of her flesh were scattered about her. Mariko asked herself, if she were shot up at close range, certainly she would not have survived.

Noone can revive me after my tormentors were through shooting she thought. Why would anyone still take my head away then? It was as if someone left an imprint of vicious hatred upon the dead woman.

Scattered beside her incongruous frame were a number of minute compact discs.

“Please take care of these Rhea.” Mariko asked a forensic technician to take the CDs.

“Okay.” The young lady forensic investigator lifted the CDs slowly using a rubber glove and a tweezer. She placed them inside a small evidence bag.

The young investigator did not know that the harmless set of discs would later cost a number of lives.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


MORE THAN 100 DEAD IN MINDANAO MISHAP
by Carlo Bangilon
PHILIPPINE NEWS AGENCY

TAWI-TAWI, SULU. July 28, 2002. — A large number of casualties were found yesterday in Saluag Island, just several hours away from Tawi-Tawi, Sulu.

The bodies of more than a hundred dead persons were discovered by fishermen who were on their way to fishing zone in the Celebes Sea.

The place is still presently closed to media but Abbas Kumila, one of the fishermen who found the bodies, was interviewed last night by PNA. Abbas said that the sight was so fearsome, hundreds of people without heads, no more arms, no legs and some had their bodies cut up into two or more parts.

Col. Malik Amondo, commander of the Philippine Marines unit in Jolo who had first visited the site and alerted the responsible authorities about the incident, said “We are mystified about this incident. We will investigate the roots of this.” This was no plane crash. It was something else. Col. Amondo declined to comment further.

Saluag Island, present population 0, is located, along Sibutu Pass, Southwest Mindanao. Residents of nearby barangays, Simunul and Manuk Manka I of Tawi-Tawi, swear that they heard successive volleys of what seemed to be like gunfire. At first they thought it was distant thunder or lightning. But since most of them are familiar with gunshots, they were able to later distinguish the sound as coming from guns.

# # #

2 PLANES DOWN, 180 FOUND DEAD IN MINDANAO
by Dino Mascardo
MINDANAO DAILY GAZZETTE

TAWI-TAWI, 07/28/2002 — A mysterious twist of fate has left no less than one hundred and eighty persons dead in an Island of Tawi-Tawi called Saluag, along Sibutu Pass, in the southwestern most in the Philippine archipelago.

As this report is being filed, the Philippines National Red Cross and the International Red Cross volunteers and Department of National Defense emergency workers are at the scene and managing the incident.

Both local and foreign media await word about when members of the press will be allowed into the place. Some locals who were interviewed here said that fishermen out to fish near Sabah in the Celebes discovered the bodies. They said the sight made them afraid. The locals found hundreds of dead bodies in the island.

A returning supply team from the Philippine Air Force confirmed that as of the last count, one hundred eighty people were accounted for with missing body parts like heads, arms, legs with some bodies cut up into two or more parts. The source who asked not to be identified said that the victims were killed massacre-style. And that indeed, the sight was gruesome.

The governor of Sulu, Walek Harsalaan was in Tawi-Tawi early yesterday and he met with local officials to instruct them to provide support and assistance to the private volunteers and government workers who are now in the site of the incident.

Meanwhile, residents of Simunul Island and Manuk Manka I said that they a series of gunshots from Saluag Island.

# # #

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He was never an Academy man, and yet in some ways, Maj. Ramon Signes was proud of it too. He was proud of himself and what he managed to accomplish. While he was born of civilian parents from one of the Philippines’ oldest districts, Tondo, Ramon had always wanted to do soldiering.

Dreaming and working hard at his dream to follow the footsteps of his family’s forebears. Col. Ramon Domingo II, also known as “RD” and “Hot Rod” to those who knew him well, was a superb pilot and one of the best that ever was in the history of the Philippine Air Force. He fought gallantly against the Japanese. Gen. Artemio Signes fought besides the Great Filipino Hero, Andres Bonifacio against the Kingdom of Spain.

Maj. Signes was named after “Hot Rod” and was an exemplary officer just like him. He earned the monicker of Venus’ Flyboy so that his old fighter jet when he was a lieutenant, also bore the letters. His F-8 Crusader fighter plane has since been grounded by PAF high command not because of all of its drawings of female lips of varying shapes. The parts were really just slow in coming and to Ramon's disgust, he got himself reassigned in the meantime to Rescue, the Philippine Air Force 505th Air Rescue Group that used to be known as the Rescue Wing.

Later, he was seconded to Intelligence and Security, because as his superiors say, he had a way with women. Ramon doubted however, that it was a guaranteed way of gathering intelligence and maintaining security and said to officers and airmen close to him that he resented the transfer because he had come to love the Rescue Wing. The Rescue boys with whom he'd enjoyed working were nearly all here now.

Here and now was at the incident site. The same day of their arrival.

He had just had a brief meeting with Mariko Yashida's group. During the meeting, Mariko’s senior, Dr. Janey Coscolluella could not afford to be — at her best — totally objective. Dr. Janey Coscolluella, was the most senior first responder group's medic on the scene.

She kept repeating, as if to herself and to everyone in the briefing session, the statement that, “This island is such a really, really beautiful place and it was such a waste to spoil it like this!” “God blessed us with such a wonderful island of beaches like this. And now, the enitre world will learn that we have laid it to waste.”

The session did not last long enough since it seemed that everyone else wanted Dr. Janey to come to her senses first. Possibly, when they begin some of the work in earnest, some even whispered.

Now Janey was standing at the lookout point with Ramon. As she also panned over the wreckage and upon the wretchedness in front of her, one by one, the victims, in their severely tattered casual wardrobes, trapped in bizarre poses seemed to call out to her.

While contemplating her tasks that were several and manifold, Dr. Coscolluela could still almost hear the lifeless forms about her, screaming, agonizing. How must they have felt over the onslaught of slugs from at least twenty five high-powered firearms, unable to believe and hoping that by the sound of their chords they might be spared the pain?

She could still picture the grim faces of the gunmen as they poured the hot metallic trajectories onto their prey. Minding not how some of these bodies were cut by half, some contorted beyond recognition while the others’ extremities were severed completely at the points of impact.

Beside her, Maj. Signes, was gesturing animatedly to his subordinates. He commanded the security team backing up her first response team. As he did so, Janey caught his eyes keep darting towards her direction and appeared more than just to approve her deep tan.

Ramon's eyes later followed Jane as she walked toward the operations tent, got busy sorting out tags that the corpses would be identified with. He and Janey were together in Dili, East Timor after the cessation of hostilities and declaration of Timorese Independence. They had both been given citations by Shanana Gusmao himself.

Beneath the doctor's lab coat, Janey wore a nicely tailored suit that enhanced her wonderful curves. She was ravishingly beautiful, in spite of the gruesome sight that surrounded them all in this island.

Looking at the lady doctor, Ramon distinctively knew he had felt something even from back in Dili. However he knew that was something significant, and an issue that would rather have to wait for another day. Anyhow he liked what he saw and he felt good. Janey was a wonderful individual and he could spend hours and hours being with her again like they did after work in Timor, but for the fact that he would only look around him and realize it was hardly the time to flirt.

Meanwhile his conscious mind turned its attention to the beeping of his cellular phone equipped with a small contraption to boost his cell phone’s antenna. He talked momentarily with his brother, Walfredo, an engineer who was working on a building contract in Makati City - the Philippine’s main financial district. Then he called his friend in Manila, Lt. Col. Eugene David to tell him about what he was suddenly involved in. A suspected terrorist attack that killed more than one hundred persons.

Ramon closed his mobile, waved his hand to call three of his staff, reminded and instructed them on what needed to be done in the next few hours.

At the end of the day, Major Signes and one of his men, Sgt. Crispin Rapeno approached Janey inquiring if there was something they could help her with. She apprised them as to her progress and asked them if they could pitch in with certain chores that have to do with formal notification procedures — the arduous task of identification and giving notice to the relatives of all of the casualties who were identified here.

“My dear Major,” she said with her usual strong voice that Ramon knew from Dili, “if I won't be asking too much from you, our Australian-Filipino medic team under the International Red Cross are really hard pressed to handle such matters any further with our hands full of work. Would the army kindly ...”

“Air Force, Jane ... ” he interjected.

“Oh yeah, ha ha!” Janey let out a forced laugh. “Sorry, I keep forgetting.”

“Gladly, of course. Just tell us boys what to do.” Janey did and they set off to work on their tasks later getting glued to their cellular phones and the military radio glad to be of help to the response team beyond their security mandate.

After everyone retired to the mess tent set up for the entire response and security teams, Dr. Janey Coscolluella came back to Major Signes and Sgt. Rapeno again. Her fellow doctors gave her a short time-out that she asked for before supper.

“Oh, sorry again, Major, would the Air Force be kind enough to get the needed help from whatever source it may be able to find ... about the water situation here?” Saluag Island, Janey’s people reported after conducting a survey of the island escorted by Air Force personnel, that there was no potable water source in the immediate area.

“Certainly that had partly been arranged, Jane. We have supply for at least five meals for all of us, and then that would be resupply time.” Signes smiled at her and when she was smiling back, he turned his back before she could see him blushing.

“But we need a lot of water for washing at the doctor’s tent.” Jane called at him when he started to step away.

Maj. Signes could not hide his blushing face anyway, “Oh! Of course! We are set up for that too.” He raised his thumbs up and went to hurriedly fetch his communications sergeant allowing Janey that moment to giggle. She had hoped for a little adversarial tone from the security commander, but decided against that thinking that perhaps there was something else she stumbled upon instead. Maj. Ramon Signes used to shout back at the Australian officers back in Dili when he was given multiple orders at one time and commanded to comply with them yesterday.

She placed her hands on her pockets and managed to get back to her work relieved of some of the tension she was earlier experiencing and glad of it. The bodies were several days old and there was little time left before their serious and accelerated decomposition would begin; no one could ever bear taking it lightly then. That is why they had to work longer hours. No reinforcements seemed to have come early.

As he went back to ground zero, Maj. Signes noted that the aircraft indeed bore no outward signs of being vandalized, nor ruined, but all of its cargo was hauled away. That was the report he got from his security team. The avionics and all the other sections were totally cannibalized. The seats, the carpet, even the upholstering material on the walls were gone. Not even the cabin light bulbs were spared. All cargo bays lay open, stripped bare of contents. The looters swept the entire plane of its commercial cargo as well.

The plane was practically empty on the inside. Not that neither the passengers nor its crew would complain anyhow. In grotesque poses they lay on the beach of this nearly uninhabited area of the Sulu archipelago. It seemed as if the victims, who by the last count numbered 180 in all including the crew desperately tried to shield, to even perhaps comfort, each other from death that appeared most certain.

Nearly a hundred feet away, the other aircraft left little room for imagination. It was in complete disarray. It would take an expert team from the United States federal agency called the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) to piece together the evidence at hand to come up with a decent assessment of what happened to the second air plane.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter I

CHAPTER ONE

Yakan (locally pronounced as Ee-yah-kan) are an old tribal people, legendarily known in the south of the Philippine Islands as a classic nomadic tribe. The Yakan used to be a proud people. They converted from their supposed paganism, to Islam, around the 10th - 12th centuries A.D. by conquering Tausugs (a neighboring tribe in Southwest Mindanao at the near tip of the Phillippine Archipelago) and other more advanced and powerful tribes of Southern Philippines that much earlier, embraced the Islamic faith.

Many uneducated Yakan say, there is a story about the curse of the Dagger of the Prophet Mohammed (SAW) that was said to have been lost in the hands of a Datu or Chieftain of the Yakan Tribe. The object was supposedly entrusted to the Datu for safekeeping by the Prophet’s fifth descendant —— who, among others, before his final sojourn to China, first took the opportunity to propagate the Prophet’s lineage and the faith of Islam in the South.

Due to the loss, it is said, even the Datus of the Yakans shall be looked upon with disfavor by Al’lah and will suffer impoverishment beyond their imagination. Because of their long-held belief in such myth, illiterate Yakans placed themselves in slave servitude to the other tribes for care and protection. In case poverty grips them, they will not suffer.

The story goes that generations and generations of unlettered Yakan followed this ritual, knocking upon the doors of their fellow Islamic faithfuls and seeking refuge from the unfolding of their cursed existence.

Some misguided Yakan tribesmen who were benefited with a modicum of education felt challenged and irreverently wanted the story turned upside down. They formed a cult — calling themselves the People of the Chosen Tribe — for indeed, did not the Prophet’s direct descendant provide them the occasion to safeguard one of the most holy relics of the Faith?

They formed a small band that went around, telling their friends and kin what it would be like to change the way the Yakan tribe should behave as a community. They would meet favor with radical missionaries from Pakistan who roamed Southern Philippines, trying to propagate Islam who introduced themselves as the JAMA’AT TABLIQUE.

This encounter with the Tablique, encouraged them further. They engaged in debates, discussions and other fora, rallying the people to the concept of social and image change or as they called it in Arabic, faurat. They will conduct themselves in a manner that befits the new Yakans. There shall be a revolution. They will blame the kafir as The Noble Qur’an Al Kareem calls the unbelievers for all the misery that have befallen their tribe. They who have oppressed them and made them stoop down to the lowest level. And the tribe shall go to war against them.

At the time, the tide turned against the Russian armed forces that occupied Kabul and many other parts of the “mountain” nation. Soon they were ordered by the Soviet Union to go back home.

Yakan – together with a considerably large number of non-Muslims volunteered to become mujahideen and fought side by side with the Afghan rebels. They have come home. Accompanying them home, were their non-Muslim brothers-in-arms —— former guerilla soldiers of the Communist Party of the Philippines’ military arm, the New People’s Army —— but who were now without a revolutionary organization to go home to. Their leader back in Pakistan and Afghanistan, Wadn Hassan and the organization they used to serve, however bit the hand that used to feed them. He now had a new faith. He had become vehemently anti-American. Many of the Yakan and their companions had thought Wadn Hassan was in the right path.

Upon their return, a good number of them, the Yakan and the non-Muslims in small groups sought the mountains. Mostly they came down from their mountain lairs only for a specific purpose: They search and purchase firearms. They had enormous savings from their compensation for fighting other people’s wars in U.S. dollars as mujahideens; they purchased weapons mostly saying, only for use in self-defense. The you-know-how-it-is-here-in-Mindanao attitude and the possession of firearms as a status symbol actually got them a number of big, powerful guns. In a few parts south of the Philippine Islands, that is even an understatement.

The former mujahideens continued the same kind of existence they had in the Afghan mountains and in the rugged terrains of upper Pakistan regions. The non-Muslims now had different names; they had evidently converted into Islam because of their need to be hired as Muslim fighters. In public however, they were never seen to be spiritually inclined, neither religious; they simply displayed the mien of Filipino overseas workers who travelled abroad to earn money for a living — and spent their money or the usual fare and had a little good time upon returning home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

At the Aguinaldo Golf Clubhouse, Lt. Col. Eugene David, was celebrating his birthday alone early as he turns forty today. Among those he spent most of the time with now, no one showed ny signs that they knew about his birthday. Eugene didn't care about it himself at this time since he was deeply troubled by his circumstances.

Joselito, the longest-serving waiter at the Clubhouse's restaurant, surprised him by remembering today's significance: "Happy Birthday Col. David, Sir!"

"My goodness, Lits, stop talking bad words!" and they laughed out loud for no one in particular since the restaurant didn't have any patrons at the time. It was barely 10:00 AM and Eugene had already finished a flight over a few holes in the Camp Emilio Aguinaldo Golf Club's fairway greens. Earlier in the same morning, he had practiced his swing hard on the driving range. He thought he was having a grand time. He woke up to a very pleasant weather, the sun seemed to smile at him and despite some disturbing nasty business from the past, he was feeling very ebullient and eager to enjoy what this today would bring.

He settled on a chair Joselito indicated for him near the entrance to the pantry. The always cheerful waiter immediately gave him two newspapers stamped with COMPLIMENTARY COPY EAGC. After he scanned the headlines, he called an orderly to fetch a brown leather bag that his Aunt Crissie sent to him from the States. His aunt lived in Florida with her husband who retired from the U.S. Navy a year earlier. Uncle Wainwright was now into the computers business and on the side, he consulted with companies like Raytheon, McDonnell Douglas and other aviation companies.

Taking the bag from the orderly, Eugene handed a fifty peso tip and took out a portable laptop computer. This computer he took from his aunt's gift leather bag from last Christmas was not from his uncle though. He bought it himself out of a loan from the Armed Forces and Police Savings and Loan Association and suffered large deductions on his pay for many months. While killing time, he booted the machine and surfed a site where the day's news headlines from the biggest international dailies and broadcasting companies were shown.

While he did think about leaving the Service sometimes because of the exceedingly low pay, he was prevented from filing for "RC/RCS" (resigned commission/revert-to-civilian-status) orders by moonlighting as a technical writer and part owner in a friend's very lucrative consultancy outfit servicing foreign investment banking companies. Occasionally, his friend would personally give him a hefty check. It didn't fail to stop him from contemplating his long-due escape from the Army.

Aside from graduating from the US Military Academy (USMA) at West Point, Eugene had a Master's degree in Business Administration from Ateneo de Manila University, citations as exemplary student and another Master's diploma from the London School of Economics, a Certificate in Development Management from the Asian Institute of Management, among many other qualifications that could even make regular Filipino banker's credentials pale in comparison.

Still and all, he had a string of certificates of completion and citations as top performer in courses on special operations from various military educational institutions like the Army Training Command, Philippine Army, Armed Forces of the Philippines (ATC, PA AFP); the airborne special course at the US Army Training and Doctrine Command (TRADOC) in Fort Benning, Georgia; the special forces underwater operations course at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School (JFK SWCS) at Fort Bragg, NC, USA; defense economic resources and logistics management at the Defense Systems Management Center, Defense Logistics Agency, Department of Defense (DSMC, DLA DoD) at Fort Belvoir, Virginia as well as a slew of other specialization seminars and workshops.

Eugene still paid the bill and left his much delayed meal uneaten. Maria was head first class section crew for the Saudi Air. She asked him to join pay her a visit at the Manila Hotel and join her for dinner; she had just come home from another long flight.

Eugene and Maria were childhood friends and at one time were lovers. They stayed friends after their break up and never stopped seeing each other — enjoying one another’s company. Maria asked him to order coffee first at the Café Sampaguita of the hotel. Not having read the news for the day yet when he was interrupted by Maria's invitation, Eugene did not bother to take some of the complimentary papers from the rack as the waiter was taking his order. He simply took the brown leather bag he brought with him and brought out his portable computer and opened the cache containing the sites he had surfed earlier back at the Aguinaldo Golf Club's restaurant.

The headlines from one or two days ago, were still the fare of the day.

181 DEAD IN MINDANAO; TERRORISTS SUSPECTED
Delon Yang
The Taiwan Express


POSSIBLE MINDANAO TERRORIST ATTACK KILLED 181
Vivian Smith
International Herald Tribune

RUTHLESS MINDANAO MASSACRE; 181 DEAD
Keith Guillerman
London Standard



TERRORISTS KILL 181 IN SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES
Gary Suzumo
Okinawa Shimbun



SUSPECTED TERRORISTS KILL 181 IN MINDANAO
by Celina Santos
CMN International



181 DEAD IN SOUTH PHILIPPINES MASSACRE
by Tarjan Singh
India Daily Observer



TERRORISTS STRIKE AGAIN IN MINDANAO
by Lorraine Esteves
Madrid Diario Espejo

Slouching in his chair, his hand felt his stomach turning sour at the banner stories from the various dailies. From his side vision, he watched five little children romping in the guests' swimming pool of Manila Hotel. They were happily laughing and shouting. He resented his sudden leaden feeling. It appears to be a wonderful day and it was his birthday after all. But he couldn't help feeling sullen at all. Yesterday he got a call from Ramon, one of his very best friends in the military. Ramon was with the Philippine Air Force and a certified lunatic. But while Ramon had a terrible temper, Eugene put up with him everytime. Flyboy Ram was somewhere in the Basilan Island group and told him about the disfigured bodies they found in an island called Saluag.

Ram said that he was heading the security contingent and a whole army of Australian and Filipino volunteers were at the site.

“Why Aussies?”

“Because they happened to be in an International Red Cross Workshop at Mandarin Hotel when the word got out. And the several Aussie embassies in Manila, Indonesia, Brunei and Malaysia were also in teleconference at the time with their foreign minister and they suspected some of their nationals were included among those who were found dead at the island. That’s why.” Ramon reported.

“Why so many people?” Eugene asked his friend.

“I really don’t know yet. We’ll try to find out as much as we can and I’ll be back for resupply in a few days.”

“Meet me when you’re in town then,” Eugene said, aching to know more about what happened so far from where he was comfortably placed.

“I suppose that would be doing the impossible. This thing’s a mess. Lot of stuff to take care of. But I'll definitely call you. Mr. Terrorism Expert, Specialist, Teacher and Master. I bet you can help me big in this one. Start calling your long line of adorers and admirers in the Logistics office.” They both laughed at that, just.

“Okay then,” Eugene said then punched the red colored off key. He smiled at Ramon's effort to seek his help without saying it in so many words. His friend never hid the fact that he had too much pride in him and that his temper was the worst part of him. But Eugene thought, that was one of Ram's traits that made him very endearing, because he was conscious of it and carried it without making it a hang-up of his personality. Ramon was very keen about it and while he was always quick to take offense he was also fast on the repartee.

Somehow he felt blood from his system drained. He probably needed breakfast, he thought to himself. And lunch, since it was now way past morning.

As he did, he looked at Maria slide into the seat in front of him giving him a start when she slapped his free hand on the table.

“Birthday boy! You look freaked out! Hah! I can’t believe steady and stable Eugene is suddenly out of his element! What’s the matter with you?”

He simply smiled and half-rose to kiss Maria who offered her right cheek.

They held hands for seconds and sat back down.

“So what’s new with you dear?"

Eugene told her the story of how he had nothing better to do when she called. That Ram -- who was their mutual friend -- was in Mindanao, in an island called Saluag. That he and his benefactor and mentor Major General Gerveron, had burned their bridges. He said he had no command at the moment just because. He kept making gestures when he bantered about light subjects in between and Maria laughed at him.

At Maria's prodding, Eugene got food for both of them from the buffet section and picked on his plate as Maria fielded him with a lot of questions.

Maria didn't seem to want having lunch. She would however make a sign for one vodka and tonic, within just minutes of the other. She forked a bit of the fruit, cheese, some vegetables that she dipped in cream from the plate Eugene got for her from the buffet. Then she felt her face began to blush. Eugene observed here pale colored cheeks grow rosy. He also saw that her lips had somewhat expanded. Must be my imagination, he thought.

Maria felt tipsy, but tried to keep her head straight. She realized she'd been licking her lips more often. Time to go to my room, she told herself. "Will you want to keep me company?" She asked silently, but the she didn't hear the words.

“You’re trying very hard not to let your depression affect me. That’s what I like about you, Euge. Of course, among many other things. You're good in the sack, and that's not why I broke up with you. You know. Thank you, but I am terribly sorry things turned sour between you and the Giant.”

Maria could be very frank. Eugene felt his face blushing when he noticed people at the hotel restaurant glance in their direction.

Maria laughed again, the sound of her laughter even louder. “I guess its time to tell my story too, Euge. I'd like you to take me up on an offer to spend a week, no! A month, on vacation. I promise I'm paying for both of us. I'll foot all the bill.”

“Wha...?” Eugene was flabbergasted. Now nearly everyone was looking and staring, the glances no longer just enough.

“Stop! Don't say anything. You don't have an assignment, you're on floating status. Well, that makes two of us.” Then her voice dropped to a whisper, as if she was revealing the century's secret. “I'm leaving Saudia. There's a whole lot of trouble in Saudia, and even the one in the papers is a part of that.”

Eugene's mouth went agape and he could not speak for a whole minute. Now that was hard. Maria loved her job, as far as he knew. She considered flying an obsession and now this. Then Maria slumped in her seat sighing. She thought the pitch was regrettable. She should've softened Eugene first. But then Eugene reached out and caught her little finger and said yes without thinking. Maria's smile went up to her ears, as if she hadn't acted like she lost all her money in a card game a moment ago. Then they both started laughing hard.

The hotel guests hadn't stopped looking at them now. But they were exchanging glances. From their faces the waiters could almost discern that the patrons were communicating as if telling each other "What a lucky man that one is! What a truly lucky man!" And even the waiters agreed to their eye speak. Eugene caught two of them exchanging thumbs up signs with the guests.

After doing what he did, agreeing to go with Maria, Eugene thought he didn't hurt anyhow at all. This relationship never suffered him on anything at all when they were on. It was a beautiful relationship that only their distance kept apart and made them lonely, yearning to move forward. To what and where, no one really knew. So why not, again? Shortly after Maria signaled for the check and charged the meals and coffee to her room bill, they went up to her room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter II

CHAPTER 2




Daily Union News Headquarters
2002

Philippines was in the news now more than ever. The international media was awash with headlines about nearly one hundred dead journalists.

Felicitas Arrantez, front page editor of The Daily Union, was scratching something off her head with her letter opener while talking with her nephew, Rico, who was the Union’s computer geek. They manage to get desks near each other all the time, the ANS --- Aunt and Nephew Section, they were called.

“My, my! They really put us on the spot this time! Look at all these articles and features! My goodness!!!” Felice gasped.

“We’re even more unpopular than the Kling-ons of Star Trek, Tita Felice. Will you stop punishing your scalp, Tita? Your dandruff is falling all over the place. And you're wearing a black blouse, it shows,” Rico said.

Felice suddenly stopped her fingers. “Okay, okay. That's the fiftieth time you reminded me in one week. Anyway, what was I saying? Ah! What the hell do these people think they are doing killing all those poor writers?” Felice asked, as if to herself alone, oblivious to her nephew now.

“They're not people to me Tita."

“Those Abu el-Saif bandits surely want more than just ransoms from their kidnappings. Now they really want to make it big in publicity too! Look at how the news spread like wildfire across the globe.” Cicero Karangalan butted in, interrupting Felice’s habitual reveries. He was one of the Union’s most erudite columnists. He never used to write, but the bug bit him hard and suddenly, he had to fork in his contribution to the Union’s printing load everyday.

Rico looked up at him and smiled. He admired Cicero who doted upon him like a son. And he's really brilliant, Rico believed. He wondered though why Tita Felice never went with Cicero on the date he's been asking for, for already a hundred years he used to complain.

“Oh, hi Ces!” Felice greeted her long time admirer, perennial suitor, and good friend, the Union Wordsmith and Walking Encyclopedia as Cicero was affectionately called behind his back.

“Hello, beautiful,” Cicero winked at lady he had long fancied to be his wife.

Rico read from his computer: “ ‘Whereas dictatorships killed journalists one by one, in the Philippines they kill them by the hundreds,’ ‘Journalists are executioners’ fodder in the Philippine Islands,’ ‘Killing Journalists a pasttime in Mindanao,’ ‘They massacre Journalists in the Philippines,’ newspaper banners and write-ups scream the same topic.

“Failure of intelligence,” Cicero snorted.

“No offense, Ces, but is it really? Is that what it is? We are to blame for what those terrorists suddenly decide to do?” Felice flared.

Cicero was on the defensive, “Not us Fel. The military. The police. The NBI. The President, even.” He smiled wanly at his weak reply.

Felice suddenly hears herself laughing and cussing at the same time, “Ha haaa!!! Shit!!!”

Cicero took out a folded sheet of paper from his wallet and read:

" 'Our worry should be these hardcore groups that are calling themselves freedom fighters, liberation fronts, separatist movements and so forth. By their acts they manifest themselves as purely and plainly as mere coldblooded killers, sociopaths. It even becomes trite just to call them terrorists. These are the wretched of humanity. They worship mayhem, chaos, fear and disorder. And now comes this macabre massacre of almost a hundred innocent members of the media.' I wrote this at the house but I think I would not even want to publish this in my column tomorrow. Makes me sick." he said. "I honestly can't agree with you more, son." he patted Rico on the head while looking forlorn at Felice.

"Well, my dear, its your call. But I like that piece. Let me see it?"

Cicero handed over the article. Then excused himself. On his way to his desk, he was beaming with pride. Then he thought, why did I ever say that article makes me sick?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Even at her thirty five summers, Dr. Coscolluela’s experience in these macabre scenes were the closest that she could get to an MCI (mass casualty incident) in the jargon of SAR (Search and Rescue) community, the International Committee of the Red Cross and the International Committee of the Red Crescent, Israel's Magon David Adom and all the others in it. She had never actually been in a mass casualty incident before in her life. Or had gone anywhere near one after the fact. Oh, she had her fill of videos, power point presentations, still photos of MCIs from everywhere. But this one really gets to her.

She was not in the Ormoc disaster where more than 8,000 people lay dead in the wake of a huge water and log stampede because some powerful people dug for gold in the tip of an enormous mountain in the island province of Leyte -- famously known as the home province of former Philippine First Lady Mrs. Imelda Marcos; in the same incident in Mindoro Oriental where hundreds perished – again in a log stampede that no one wanted to admit was caused by the illegal logging of the province’s governor; later on, of course she came to Dili. But she had never seen more mangled and badly beaten bodies than this one here in Saluag.

It had been more than seventeen months ago now, when the East Timor situation stabilized — or almost, as they used to kid themselves back there then — as she had arrived at Dili. What she caught up with were the returning batches of military servicemen and a few civilians ending their observation and humanitarian assistance tour in the former Dutch and later Indonesian colony.

The Dili massacre was a thing of the past when she arrived there. She just had mere glimpses of what transpired in the caked blood on the cemetery, the gruesome colored photos at the Australian armed forces-led Head Quarters for the United Nations Task Force on East Timour.

Those pictures made her freeze at the instant she saw them and her innards tumbled. It brought her back to the days before she became a full-fledged doctor at the Inter-Faith World Catechistic Institute (IFWCI) when she and her batch mates formed the Metro Tagaytay City Emergency Response Team. Back then, she got to see the morbid and gory evidences of human pain and injury. She was thankful for the East Timor assignment and wondered why she had to be pulled out suddenly and with the Australian and Filipino doctors outside of the new state. Of course she was a well-respected volunteer of the International Red Cross.

On the helicopter ride to Saluag, however, she rationalized that the Timorese now, far well enough away from true normalcy in their day-to-day lives, are a little more well-off and fortunate than her own fellow Filipinos. Her countrymen are getting to be in a very depressing situation at the moment. The fact that at that time, she did enjoy her stay in Timor, betrayed the change in the mood. The assignment did her good.

Now it is actually Indonesia’s turn to look for succor. In response to the alleged genocide that the erstwhile Indonesian armed forces Chief of Staff General Prabowo Subianto perpetrated, the surviving kin of the victims created vigilante groups out to defend themselves against Prabowo’s troops in the special elite forces, Kopassus, and Kostrad.

The vigilantes gained sympathizers from the People’s Democratic Party (PRD). Student demonstrations marred Indonesia’s otherwise already relatively calm cities (after the Timorese affair) especially following the world renowned Trisakti killings. Then severe hostilities would erupt in Aceh, followed by the now infamous Jema’ah Islamiyyah bombings.

The perpetrators promised there would be more. And there might have been. Eventually she learned from Major Signes that Singapore went into a frenzy of an anti-terrorist crackdown after another MCI – seen the world over – in New York where the historic twin towers of the World Trade Center and a whole wing of the Pentagon were razed to the ground by terrorists using commandeered jet liners as big bombs.

Not too long after, a series of bombings took place in many parts of the globe since, with more of them popping in Israel. In her own country, The Philippines, a series of arrests continue to be made.

Indonesian Fathurrahman al Ghazy was discovered in The Philippines to be hiding at least one ton of bomb component — nitrate, they called it — and hundreds of detonating devices meant to be shipped to Singapore and other destinations. Not a small number of Filipino accomplices who confessed to knowing and working with Al Ghazy were also rounded up.

At some time in the past, two things had been happening south of the Philippine archipelago and very close to where she was now: More than 1,000 Americans soldiers went deep into joint training exercises called “Balikatan 02-1” with Filipino soldiers in Basilan Island nearby while in Zamboanga City, foreigners Malcolm Key, Marie Treacle, Ron Veel, Arminda Vaeter, Scotty O’Donnell, Duke Hanesferd, Mizu Kawashige, Masuko Kahizude, Tanaka Ikeban and Marishita Kaizen, among others, were mentioned in the news to be holding an international observers’ mission on possible human rights violations being committed in the process of the vaunted training exercises.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As the days and years passed, Brig. Gen. Semeon Aguilar looked back at that day. His memory of it almost fading into the deeper realms of his subconscious. He still could not miss the mixed emotion of being amused and puzzled at the same time. He would not learn about Operation Black Scimitar then, never did. But neither would the late National Security Council (NSC) Project Manager Richard Gloria who had recently died in an ambush after receiving his promotion to NSC Director.

Like Aguilar, Brig. Gen. Nieto Jabbon, a highly decorated soldier, at the very same time was also looking back at those days when the group they had helped form, then just a small, fledgling group of bandits had now become big. So big and too difficult to handle, like their leader Muhammad bin Wadn Hassan. His partner Col. Dolor died recently and he suspected it was because those bandits had grown into a huge monstrous glob.

Brigadier Generals Aguilar and Jabbon shivered at the possibility that they could probably be unaware the price for involvement in the operation was now being collected and someone was making a good job of it. Jabbon tried to perish the thought. So did Aguilar. But deep in their guts, the both of them, thinking at the same time from two places that were far from each other, felt terribly afraid.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mariko wandered away from the mortuary operational response command post, nearly thirty of the warped bodies passing through her hands as the case anthropologist. She felt slightly sick deep inside her. Yet she knew had not seen the last of it. This was a job to be done and back home in Japan she was well trained for it.

She knew deep in her heart that the job was difficult.

Mariko took something from her pocket. It was a minute diary she had kept for a long time inside her purse where she listed in her native Japanese language, in Hiragana script. She had painstakingly updated the accounts in her diary from time to time. The project began when she was only fourteen, encouraged by her own mother who had been a UN health worker who had been shot at, had figured in a land mine explosion, but survived. Unfortunately, now she had been sick from a parasite that she also got in the line of duty.

Her father, was the chief pastor of a large Shinto sect. She herself doubted her own affiliation to her dad and mom's common religion. But she remained faithful and loving to both of them.

Some of the casualties suffered by her fellow Red Cross volunteer workers and by those in its sister aid organization, the Red Crescent were patiently recorded in her journal as she found them in whatever source she got hold of. Each time she surfs the internet or runs through the micro-fiche library in her school, in her hometown's public library, she took time to search for these historical tidbits.

She would never stop reading and rereading the little book. Its entries grew over the years. The items she wrote in it did not follow a chronological order. She merely kept tabs of the incidents as she found them. Ironic as it seemed, it gave her one of the reasons why she had kept going back to the Japan Red Cross office as a guest and finally to apply as a trainee and then an aid worker. Later, such as on this day, it served as way for affirming the compassionate and courageous vocation that members and volunteers like her have dedicated themselves to.

June 1996. Three Red Cross workers killed in Zaire when unidentified gunmen attacked a supply depot of the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies near Goma in eastern Zaire. One Zairean United Nations High Commission on Refugees (UNHCR) security guard also slain in the attack and four others injured.

September 1996. Two Red Cross workers killed in Zaire. The workers were from the Red Cross Society of the Republic of Zaire (ZRC). Three others lost their legs to amputation. They were on board a bus that hit a land mine near Goma, Eastern Zaire.

June 1996. Red Cross worker killed in Uganda. The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies (IFRC) and the Uganda Red Cross Society (URCS) suspended activities in Koboko, North Uganda, after rebels attacked their base. Nine other people died in the attack.

June 5, 1996. Another one-day suspension of aid operations in Burundi. This was a sign of sympathy by IFRC with the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) whose three delegates were killed when their vehicles were ambushed on the previous day.

January 1996. Two Red Cross staff members were ambushed in Angola on different occasions.

20 November 1997. Red Cross volunteers placed themselves in harm's way -- serving the public -- while fighting between warring groups raged in Brazzaville, capital of Congo.

12 September 1997. Two Red Cross workers killed in Rwanda when their vehicle was ambushed on the road between Nkamira and Gisenyi. The driver, Shabani Nsanzebahiga and Mr. Bucyensenge, a member of the local Kanama Red Cross committee, were escorting an employee of the Ministry of Youth, Miss Espérance, from the Red Cross youth camp in Nkamira to hospital in Gisenyi. She was also killed.

29 August 1997. Two IFRC delegates evacuated from Pointe-Noir, Congo due to the violence in the area. They flew to Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire.

14 February 1997. Eight aid workers were killed and a general escalation of violence in the past three weeks has been observed. IFRC reduces its staff from Kigali, Rwanda, due to the violence. Twenty-five delegates were scheduled to go to Nairobi. Only six delegates will remain in Kigali to maintain the delegation until operations return to normal.

11 June 1998. A Red Crescent worker of Sudan, Magboul Mamoun, was killed with two employees from the World Food Programme when their vehicle was ambushed Tuesday 9 June.

November 1999. Red Cross and Red Crescent suffer a major drop in global volunteer force. In the last decade, the worldwide volunteer force of the Red Cross and Crescent dropped by more than 50 per cent. Over nine years, number of members and volunteers dropped from 220 million to 105 million since 1990.

November 1999. Six Magen David Adom emergency health workers were injured.

7 March 2002. A Palestine Red Crescent Society (PRCS) paramedic, Ibrahim Assad, killed in his ambulance in Tulkarem, in northern part of West Bank by Israeli army fire while responding to an emergency call.

7 March 2002. Another paramedic, Kamal Hamdan from the United Nations (UNRWA), was also killed in the incident. Two PRCS emergency medical technicians (EMT) injured. Assad is the third Red Cross worker killed in the violence that began in September 2000.

4 March 2002. Dr. Khalil Sulieman, Head of Palestine Red Crescent Society Emergency Medical Service in Jenin was killed. Four other Palestine Red Crescent paramedics, and a volunteer, were injured in the incident.

October 2000. EMT Bassam Balbeisi, was killed in Gaza while trying to save two civilians caught in cross-fire between Palestinians and Israelis.

September - October 2000. Total Palestine Red Cross Society volunteers and personnel injured since September 2000: 140.

After her last entry, there were a still a lot of blank pages. But the last page of the diary contained a short poem:

a breeze comes. a soft voice calls in a whisper;

the sky is a blur, the earth moves. i listen.

then it becomes clear, the sound: oh it is nothing

it's just death, visiting.

Mariko's attention snapped back to the present. The last victim Mariko worked was the peculiar one. Found at the spot about a hundred meters away from the main heap, the disfigured, headless female lay on the table, all shot up with lead they say was from an M-14 rifle. Mariko and the others counted at least thirty eight punctures and more than twenty exit wounds from the woman's legs up to her neck. Besides the punctures injuries, there were four large wounds from a sharp blade.

Earlier before the paramedics transferred her to the command post, Mariko noticed there was a number of minute compact discs littered beside her incongruous frame. Mariko, who was the first to investigate her corpse then, had called upon a female technician to take the CDs to the forensic tent.

Mariko hadn't been able to speak to Rhea, the young techie who lifted the CDs anymore. After the incident, the newcomer at the Air Force Rescue Squadron was suddenly recalled to her home unit. However, she did speak with Ramon and she was told that the discs were from a miniature but powerful digital video camera. Major Signes mentioned that it had up to 500 or even more Mega Pixels resolution -- which Mariko appreciated.

"That is amazing for mini videocam Sir!" she said excitedly. "Must be expensive," she said and Ramon said, "Could only be a spy using that kind camera."

"Yes Sir, and I think images must have be a clear images. Yes?"

"Oh, they are very clear indeed. And the faces of the terrorists are on the discs, nearly every one of them. It appears that the people killed here were secretly held hostages for at least 60 hours -- well, according to the tapes. Then they were killed when they learned from where they kidnapped them that a search party was launched by sixteen governments."

"Oohh! Good! Good!" was all Mariko could say then.

While she walked along the undisturbed part of the beach, Mariko’s hand felt for her cell phone that was in vibrate mode and silently indicating she had a call. Unbuttoning the phone’s holster, she promptly said, “Moshi, moshi. Hai! Otousan!” Her father.

In seconds, Mariko’s disposition changed from concerned to insecure.

“Hai. Dame, dame, otousan!”

“Hitori ja nai, otousan!”

“Ai shi teru, otousan!”

She replaced the cellular phone in the holster at her hip and clipped the button back.

Tears welled in her eyes while she turned back and met Janey. Her instinct was to hug someone, lean on a shoulder and cry out her problem.

“Dr. Jane, my mother just died!” Mariko cried out. She was about to run off to her tent but Janey embraced her.

Janey consoled her, “Do you wish to attend the service for your mother?”

Mariko shook her head, “Actually, it would being more painful. For me more pain. My mother and me Mariko, we very close. But father disapproved my going with Red Cross? He dislike me coming here....”

Jane hugged Mariko again whose frail body was rocking with sobs. “It’s alright Mari, I’ll be here for you. We'll all be here for you.” Jane. The strong, firm voice gone. All feminine and caring. Mariko hugged Jane back hard and forgot where she was. It was for a brief moment, the end of the world for her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *