Murdock told the hostages they were free to roam around the grounds, but to stay close. “There could still be some rebel snipers around.” Most of the hostages elected to stay inside.
The Englishman Murdock had first talked to came up. “Sir,” said Philpot, “I was with the 82nd Grenadiers for forty years. Done a bit of bash-and-shoot myself. Like to come with you if you don’t mind.”
“It’s an interrogation, Mr. Philpot. Might be better if you stayed here.”
“That’s Colonel Philpot, Commander. You must be at least a commander for the Navy to give you this role. I can pay my way with action if it comes to that.”
Murdock nodded, and led the way out the front of the barracks to the rebel quarters. It was now one large room. Some walls had been taken out. A dozen bunks were at one side, and on the other a table and chairs. A rebel guard, bare to the waist and tied by arms and legs, sat in one of the sturdy chairs.
“Commander, we’re loaded and ready to travel,” Domingo said on the net. “One tire’s a little low on air, but that should be no problem. We’ll hope to get to town in an hour or an hour and a half. I’ll make the calls and set up the flights and should be back here by the time the choppers arrive. How many hostages?”
“Thirty-one. One chopper could do it. Two would be better. We won’t be going back. They took the rest of the hostages somewhere. We’re trying to find out where. You should go back to Davao with the hostages.”
“We’ll see about that, Commander, when the time comes. We’re moving. Take care.”
Murdock looked back at the rebel prisoner. He was young, eighteen, maybe a year more. Juan slapped him with his open palm using a full swing. The man’s head jolted to one side and came back slowly.
Juan spoke in Filipino, and the man in the chair scowled but said nothing. Juan saw Murdock come in, and walked over.
“Sir, this isn’t going to be pretty. I’m sure it isn’t in your SEAL book on how to treat prisoners. Might be better if you were outside.”
“Carry on, Juan. SEALs seldom take prisoners; we never leave them alive. Do what you have to. We need to know where those other hostages are.”
Juan went back to the prisoner and asked him another question. When the man refused to talk, Juan took a knife and made a slice down the man’s cheek. Blood flowed down the cut and dripped on his legs. With the cut, the man bellowed in pain. Juan ignored him and asked the same question again. This time the sharp point of the knife hovered a quarter of an inch from the young man’s right eye.
“I say, now, that could produce some results,” Philpot said.
The rebel Filipino tried to draw back from the point. Juan moved it with him, momentarily grazing the eye but not damaging it.
The man jabbered off four sentences.
Juan countered with another question.
The rebel closed his eyes.
Juan moved the knife and sliced down his other cheek. Another bellow of pain.
When the rebel opened his eyes again, he saw the blade even closer to his right eye, the point small and deadly.
He talked again, and this time he relaxed. Tears seeped from his eyes and his voice went strangely hoarse.
Juan let the knife down and turned.
“He says they left early this morning before daylight. They herded about twenty people into the big truck and drove away. The best he knows is that they would go back nearer to Lebak. He heard something about an Eagle’s Nest. He said the lieutenant in charge here told the men he would be going to the Eagle’s Nest.”
“Where is that?”
“He said he didn’t know. Somewhere high. Somewhere on the ridges over the sea.”
“Is he lying?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s still holding back. I need to persuade him more.”
“I’ve heard that cutting off fingers is counterproductive,” Murdock said.
“I’ve heard that too.” Juan grinned. “But I’m not sure I believe it.”
“Find out how far down or up the coast the Eagle’s Nest is. That would be helpful. I’m going to check the kitchen. KP crew, how are you doing?”
The Motorola talked back. “Not a hell of a lot here to work with,” Jaybird said. “No beans, no flour, no potatoes. How can I make a dinner without potatoes?”
Mahanani came on. “Hey, Skipper. We’ve got a whole truckload of fruit here. We can make a good fruit salad. Then there are some other staples. Lots of bread and cans of tuna. Yeah, tuna fish sandwiches. Lots of coffee. We’ll find something else. Take about half an hour. Where do these people eat?”
“Don’t know. I’ll find out. Mr. Philpot. Where have you folks been eating your meals?”
“Tables in the hostage room,” he said. “Nothing fancy. The women set them up the first day we were here.”
Murdock relayed the message to the kitchen.
“Ed, see if you can find any more gasoline. We might be able to use that jeep down there. Check it out.”
“Can do, Skipper.”
Murdock grabbed Fernandez and they toured the whole complex again, looking for any hidden rebels, and anything that might help them find the missing hostages. They found DeWitt with two five-gallon cans of gasoline. He poured one can into the jeep fuel tank and the rig started. Somebody had tuned the engine.
“Can haul five men and a driver on here,” DeWitt said.
“Take it on a test run,” Murdock said. “Go down the road here to the beach and see if you can figure from the big truck tire marks in the dirt which way the rig turned. Help us know which way they went.”
DeWitt drove, and Jefferson went along as shotgun as they gunned the vintage rig down the narrow road toward the beach five miles away.
Murdock checked the kitchen in the big house. Mahanani had just mixed up the tuna fish, and Murdock tested the first sandwich. “Needs minced onion, pickle relish, and chopped almonds,” Murdock said.
“Sure, Skipper, and throw in the champagne and baked Alaska for dessert.”
Murdock finished the angle-cut sandwich and nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. You can make my sandwiches anytime, Mahanani.”
Outside, Murdock tried to raise the general on the Motorola. Either he was too far already, or the hills cut down on the signal. Now all they could do was wait. Transport. They were dead in the water without any air transport.
19
Guns Franklin tooled the old Toyota along the dirt and gravel road down the mountain, taking it easy, stopping for a washout halfway down where mountain-caught water must have come roaring down after a hard rain. He eased the front wheels into the foot-deep gully on the road, gunned them up the far side, and let the rear wheels come across slowly. Once past that, there were three more miles to the beach road. It ran along the surf and had been blacktopped once, but didn’t look like it had been resurfaced for ten years.
“Not much traffic out this way, so they don’t bother fixing the road,” Domingo said.
There was no traffic at all. An occasional shack of boards and woven panels showed on the beach side at the end of dirt trails off the road. They saw no people.
After five miles the road was a little better, and that let Franklin gun the eight-year-old Toyota up to thirty miles an hour. They had just come down a short hill to a wash that was a hundred yards wide, and had started up the slope on the other side, when something cracked the windshield and slanted off into the brush and trees at the side of the road.
“Incoming,” General Domingo barked. “From the left. Stop and bail out the right-hand-side doors.”
Canzoneri, in the backseat, had his window open and the muzzle of the Bull Pup pushed out toward the mountain. When the round hit the car he automatically pumped three three-round bursts into the trees on the other side of the road. Then he bailed out and dove into the shallow ditch on the beach side of the road with the car between him and the shooters.