“I guess everything does come full cycle,” Talbosa said softly, looking at Takishi.
Takishi smiled and nodded, watching as his forces rolled through the streets of Manila amidst an angry mob of people.
Lifting his pearl handled revolver to Talbosa’s head, Takishi pulled the trigger from point blank. Talbosa’s lifeless body slumped at the front gate of the Presidential Palace. As if to celebrate, the Japanese soldiers shot into the crowd, killing some, quickly dispersing the group that had assembled to protest. The Japanese army had gathered almost two thousand members of Talbosa’s Abu Sayyaf and were marching them north past the airport, into the countryside in the direction of Cabanatuan.
The tank treads creaked forward slowly, as if to nudge the stragglers in the group of rebels. Some women and children had accompanied their husbands and fathers for the march north to wherever. They were the fortunate ones, though, as thousands lay dead behind them.
The insurgents had put up a valiant fight but were no match for the sophisticated weaponry of the Japanese. The Japanese fought from the technological comfort of their machines, mowing down the rebels, who would foolishly stand and fire small-arms weapons at them. The insurgents had used most of their antitank and antiaircraft weapons during the initial assault and subsequent mopping-up operations. In fact, they had gotten downright careless with the ammunition, thinking and hoping they would no longer need it.
They had been wrong.
Takishi’s plan was to drive the Abu Sayyaf north to Fort Magsaysay where they would lock them in prison facilities, or shoot them, whichever Prime Minister Mizuzawa had decided.
The crowd neared three thousand as the Japanese soldiers would storm a hamlet of thatch huts, find weapons indicating the residents belonged to the Abu Sayyaf, and add them to the group. They walked with bare feet along the white cement road, past their neighbors and friends, some of whom watched the procession, others joining out of defiance. The Filipinos were a proud people, regardless of political orientation. They were tired of foreign domination of their country and would remain defiant to the end.
The large mob was getting hard to control. Takishi’s soldiers formed a cordon on either side of the tired, hungry group, walking much faster than the heat of the day allowed for. The pavement was piping hot, burning hardened bare feet at the touch. Pregnant women passed out along the way, dropping to the side, only to be nudged with the pointed tip of a soldier’s bayonet. Some lost their babies, others simply did not continue.
None of the group had enough time to secure any food or water for the march, many dropping from heat exhaustion. They had traveled over twenty miles in less than six hours, a brutal pace. Fort Magsaysay was fifty miles north of Manila. They were almost halfway there. Takishi believed they would be able to make it by nightfall.
Chapter 79
“Piece of shit,” Matt yelled, kicking the truck. It had died on them. Simply died without forewarning. No idiot light came on. No gauge needle pegged out. The truck just crapped out. They had traveled just five miles from their captivity.
“Where the hell are we?” Sturgeon asked, not really expecting an answer.
“We’re just outside Cabanatuan. Used to be an Abu Sayyaf stronghold. Still is, I guess,” Barefoot told them. He had studied the country. He wanted to break the mold of the idiot, liberal journalist. Unfortunately, he was running for his life and not covering a story.
The morning sun bore down on them like an eighteen-wheeler with high beams. At least they had made it past the sunken rice paddy area. They had hunkered down for the day in a low area about five miles from their former prison cell and had chosen to move at night. The sun was rising, and they needed to find concealment, Matt knew. Now they were standing amidst a desolate expanse of hardpan covered in white dirt with isolated patches of grass shooting through.
Matt spied a small wooded area to the west and said, “We need to do something about Rathburn’s body. We need to bury him and somehow mark the spot so one day we can come back for him.”
“Yeah. You’re right,” Sturgeon said.
“There,” Matt pointed. There was a small hill with a tight cluster of hardwoods about three hundred meters to their west. The terrain feature contrasted sharply from the indistinct hardpan upon which they stood and the soggy rice paddies behind them. The town of Cabanatuan was less than a mile to the west, interrupted by the clump of trees on a small hill.
“That looks good,” Sturgeon said, pointing to the trees.
“Good,” Matt said, thinking. “Barefoot, is there any way we could get the place on film, in case, you know”—he paused—“something should happen to us. At least there would be a record of where we buried him.”
“Why don’t I do a story on this if my batteries work,” Barefoot said. Barefoot carried with him a camera with tripod and remote, a satellite antenna, and the four-port uplink that linked the antenna to the camera and processed the information digitally over the computer. The beauty of the system was that it was all entirely battery-operated.
“Yeah. Let’s do that, then tell the world where we are. Why didn’t you tell us your stuff worked?” Matt asked, hopeful.
“It will only record. I’m sure the rebels pilfered my stuff,” Barefoot said. “I’ll check it once we get situated.”
Two of the men carried the media equipment while a third carried Rathburn’s stiff, putrid body across the dusty surface. It was a short walk, but still, they took turns swapping Rathburn’s body among themselves. It wasn’t so much the weight as it was the smell. Plus, the rigid body was awkward to handle.
They entered the comforting shade of the wooded knoll and disappeared amidst the trees. The mahoganies were tall and dark, blocking the searing, penetrating rays of the sun. Each man had a canteen of water they had found in the back of the truck, curiously, and drank without concern for where the next canteen would come from.
Matt dumped Rathburn’s body on the ground. The dirt around the trees was darker and much softer than the crusted hardpan they had traversed. The woods were larger than they initially appeared, running a couple of hundred meters to the west, toward Cabanatuan. He found a tree branch, snapped the twigs away, and whittled the end into a spade with Sturgeon’s knife. He tossed the knife to its owner, who did the same.
The two men dug a shallow grave in nearly an hour. They worked feverishly for some unknown reason — they had all the time in the world, but their sense was that Rathburn had been violated and by planting his body in the ground, somehow it would begin the healing process. Perhaps then, his soul could escape the horror of the past few days and ascend to the heavens.
Meanwhile, Barefoot set up his equipment, testing and checking. He was surprised to find everything in working order. He pointed the satellite dish toward the sky until he got a red signal indicator showing that he had linkup with the CNN satellite. Then the signal faded. CNN’s satellite, Barefoot believed, was geostationary. So either he had lost the signal or his batteries were weak. Regardless, he pressed on.
Matt and Sturgeon lifted Rathburn’s body into the grave and began the burial process. Barefoot popped a blank tape into his camera and began filming. Out of decency, he filmed only the faces of Jack and Matt, working feverishly to bury their fallen comrade. This will make a great story, maybe even win a Pulitzer. Barefoot’s immediate thoughts were with Rathburn though. He did not know the man, but knew he had probably suffered a terrible death. Worse, his after-death experience had been one of mutilation and agony. The gods may never take him, Barefoot thought to himself.