"Of course it didn't work out," he continued.
"The Muslims began fighting among themselves over who should control their territories. The MNLF, the BMLO – Bangsa Moro Liberation Organization – and other splinter groups fought for power. And in the background, Abayon and the Abu Sayef remained aloof from the infighting.
"Fighting between the central government and the Muslims broke out in 1977. The various Muslim groups also were fighting among themselves, which must have delighted Marcos. When Marcos fell in 1985, the new government held out the olive branch to Muslims. It seemed that everyone was tired of the fighting. A peace process was begun. But a serious schism was beginning to form between moderate Muslims and extremists. This is when the Abu Sayef began to come to the forefront, espousing jihad, violent struggle, versus the government policy of nonviolent mobilization, known as dawa."
General Slocum stood up.
"This just reflects what started happening everywhere in the world in the nineties and into the new millennium. Abayon is the head of the Abu Sayef and the group is just one of the many tentacles of this movement, just like Al Qaeda. They are a threat to our way of life, and our job is to take down one of those tentacles."
Slocum wasn't done.
"These people use terrorism as their weapon against civilization. They took the war to us on 9/11. Now we're taking the war to them. Let's do it."
Royce was impressed with Slocum. The general didn't seem to be acting. His musings on the simulation were interrupted by Foster.
"Why are we playing this game?" the scientist demanded.
"You heard that. The Abu Sayef are terrorists and Abayon is their leader. We shouldn't have to be playing this hide and seek game to – "
"Shut up," Royce said. He realized Foster wasn't as bright and aware as he had thought.
Foster appeared not to hear him.
"This is a simulation center, not a real operations center. I can't be held responsible for – "
Royce pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Foster. That got through, and the scientist's mouth snapped shut, his eyes getting wide.
"David explained your situation, correct?"
Foster nodded.
"Let me explain it more clearly since you haven't gotten the message."
Royce pressed the muzzle of the gun against Foster's forehead.
"I don't give a shit about your job at the NSA. Or the blackmail from college. You pull your weight here, get the team the support it needs, do what I tell you to do, or else I kill you. Is that clear?"
Foster swallowed hard. He tried to nod, then realized the cold steel against his forehead precluded that.
"Yes," he managed to get out.
Abayon smiled for a moment, but it passed quickly as the cigarette smoke reached his lungs and he doubled over in his chair, hacking and coughing. He cursed as he stubbed out the cigarette on the armrest of his wheelchair. This one vice had been taken from him by the frailties of his aging body.
He watched the small dot of light that represented Moreno move through the strait between Jolo and Pata islands into the open sea until it disappeared around the headland. Then he wheeled himself inside the complex, the camouflaged steel door sliding down behind him. He rolled down the corridor, the only sound the rhythmic hiss of air being moved through the large pipes bolted to the ceiling. It was a sound he had lived with for many decades so it went unnoticed. Somewhere in the distance another steel door clanged shut.
Abayon reached an elevator. The doors slid open and he rolled inside. Reaching up, he could just barely reach the buttons. They had faded Japanese writing next to them. He punched the one for the lowest level of the complex. With a slight jerk, the old elevator slowly began descending into the bowels of Hono Mountain. It took over two minutes for him to get to the level he wanted.
The doors opened, presenting him with two of his men armed with submachine guns standing in a small anteroom. They snapped to attention upon recognizing him. One turned to the control mechanism for the door behind them, sliding a large metal key into one of the slots. Abayon wheeled to the other side of the door, pulled out his own version of the large key and slid it into the slot on that side.
"On three," Abayon said.
"One, two, three."
They turned their keys in unison.
With a squeal of reluctance, the heavy steel door began to rumble open. Whatever was on the other side was bathed in darkness. When the doors stopped moving, Abayon rolled himself into the darkness. He paused as the door shut behind him. Then he reached out to his right, his hand finding the familiar switch. He threw it and large lights spaced along the ceiling of the huge tunnel he was in came on.
The light was reflected back many times as it struck six-foot-high piles of gold bullion stacked on either side, the entire eighty-foot length of the tunnel.
And this was just the beginning of what was hidden here. A steel door at the far end of the tunnel beckoned, and Abayon rolled his wheelchair toward it. It was the front end of an air lock. The chamber beyond was climate controlled, with three backup generators on constant standby to ensure that the system never failed. Abayon went past the gold without a glance at it. After decades of seeing it, the yellow metal had lost its hold on him.
However, what lay beyond the air lock was a different story. Abayon opened the closest door and entered the lock. He impatiently waited as the humidity and temperature were brought in line with the chamber beyond. The red light on the door turned to green, and Abayon leaned forward in the chair, turning the wheel that unlatched the door. It swung open and he pushed himself inside, turning on the lights as he did.
It was the museum a pack rat might put together – a pack rat with exquisite taste. Paintings lined the walls, frame-to-frame, competing for space. Statues and sculptures were lined shoulder-to-shoulder. Tables covered with exquisite artifacts were in front of the statues. It was a treasure that matched in potential wealth the bullion in the preceding chamber. It was actually more valuable, though, in emotional terms, because almost every piece of art in the room was ancient and irreplaceable, and long believed lost during the mayhem of the Second World War as the Rising Sun spread across the western Pacific Rim.
There were artifacts in this chamber from every country the Japanese had invaded. This was the result of the rape of those cultures under the guise of the Golden Lily Project, a most misleading name. In several places there were gaps on the wall and floor, where some of the treasure had recently been removed. A small but significant portion.
There was something else in the chamber. Bodies. Dozens of them. Mummified in the room's dry air. Still garbed in their Imperial Army uniforms. Abayon moved into the room until he was in front of one of the bodies. The rank insignia indicated he was a colonel. A sword was still buckled around his waist. A faded red gash across his throat indicated how he had died.
Abayon had made that cut. He remembered the event like it was yesterday.
CHAPTER 6
They had known only defeat and retreat ever since answering General MacArthur's call to arms. Then MacArthur ran away in the middle of the night to Australia, and the Americans surrendered at Bataan. Rogelio Abayon and his comrades had watched from the jungle as the tattered prisoners – American and Filipino – were marched by. What they saw convinced them that their decision to take to the hills and not follow the order to give up had been the right one.
The route to the prison camps was lined with the bodies of those who could not make it and those the Japanese guards randomly executed. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to delineate those whom the guards bayoneted or shot. The brutality combined with the shocking collapse of the apparently invincible American military left the young band of thirty-odd former Filipino recruits bewildered. For a week after the last prisoners had been marched by they lived in the jungle, content to hide and afraid to move.