When Rathburn was covered with dirt, Matt took the two field-expedient spades and drove them deep into the ground with a rock, marking the head and foot of the grave. When the June rains came, and all the ground seemed the same, the two branches should still be protruding a foot or so from the earth’s surface.
“I would just like to say a few words,” Matt said, unaffected by the camera. He stood with the mound of dirt behind him, framed by the two branches. To his rear, the trees thinned, giving way to the hardpan below and the city of Cabanatuan to the west. The cement road was visible in the background as it emerged from some tiny shacks on the edge of the town only two hundred meters from their location.
Sturgeon took a knee in his salt-lined flight suit. He had sweat completely through it digging the grave. Barefoot didn’t notice the red light from his satellite transponder, it had come back on. He was transmitting.
Matt was a continuing contrast, like a photo-negative. His khaki shirt was now gray from dirt stains collecting on the wetness of his sweat. His cargo pants were nearly white from the dusty hardpan. Sweat had washed away the film of dirt from his unshaven face, revealing his drawn, hardened features. He had not eaten for two full days and was weak. His hair was matted and unclean. His voice was solid, though, as he spoke.
“Today we mark the death of Mr. Bart Rathburn, the assistant secretary of defense for international security affairs. Two days ago rebels from the Abu Sayyaf kidnapped Mr. Rathburn, myself, Matt Garrett, and Jack Sturgeon, the pilot of the destroyed Department of Defense airplane. We are fortunate enough to have the company of Johnny Barefoot, a CNN correspondent whom the rebels mistook for a spy. It is a sad day. Bart Rathburn gave his life in the service of his country. The rebels attacked, took us hostage, and for two days we sat in a rat-infested jail cell at a place called Fort Magsaysay near a small town on the island of Luzon called Cabanatuan.
“Bart Rathburn is a man who died before his time and an American hero in his own right. He had resisted in the spirit of the American fighting soldier, but in the end the Abu Sayyaf tortured and killed him.
“I did not know Bart Rathburn well, but his assistant, Meredith Morris, described him as a dedicated family man with a beautiful wife and two boys. We are making this documentary to record the location of his burial in case we do not escape from this conflict.”
Curiously, as Matt talked, Barefoot could see through the camera a group of people walking on the road and thought he heard a faint, high-pitched squeak of machinery. Momentarily, he cut the camera to the side of Matt’s face and zoomed past the trees onto the edge of the town. He saw about twenty Filipinos dragging in the dirt. Behind them were soldiers wearing dark green, olive drab uniforms, holding weapons and sometimes prodding the stragglers.
Zooming even closer, Matt’s voice droned on about Rathburn while Barefoot watched with horror as Japanese soldiers poked and prodded the emerging masses along the road. Another contrast.
Through the zoom lens, Barefoot taped, but actually transmitted to a satellite, images of another era. This is not possible today, he thought. He filmed soldiers herding young children onto the hot pavement in the afternoon sun. He saw muzzle flashes of random gunfire that somehow seemed too accurate. He saw tanks and mechanized fighting vehicles rolling slowly, setting the pace of the march from the rear. But there was no rear. The fifty-mile march from Manila had swelled to over six thousand. Mothers and fathers carrying their children. Some shot through the backs if they could not keep up.
He watched in horror and zoomed to a full body view, as a young Filipino male shouted angrily at a Japanese soldier, who leveled a pistol at the young man’s head and squeezed the trigger. Through the camera, the execution seemed to have a higher resolution. The faces of the two men. One angry, the other cold and expressionless. Simply doing a duty. Asian faces, one soft, almost European, the other harsh, brutally so. Their bodies. One brownish, the other yellow, one lean and malnourished, the other strong and stocky like a barrel. Their weapons. One his temperament, the other a Japanese 9mm officer’s pistol.
Matt and Sturgeon snapped their heads when they heard the gunshot that sounded so close. They had become accustomed to the random, distant firing of weapons, but knew this to be something else.
“Look between the trees,” Barefoot said, pointing, unaware that a young college intern in Atlanta, Georgia, was watching the scene as he transmitted his signal to the Syncom 3 satellite, an old coaxial slotted array communication satellite positioned nineteen hundred kilometers north of Fiji. Almost forty years ago, American television companies used the same satellite to transmit the Olympics from Tokyo.
The young woman was unsure if she was watching HBO, reality TV, or a broadcaster’s transmission. Thinking she had better check it out, this being her first day on the job, she asked the Headline News production manager, Lewis Silver, to take a look at what was on her screen. He did so gladly, wanting to help the young lass. Carrying a cup of coffee into the room with a bank of television sets, all transmitting different images, he sat down and looked as she pointed. It was early in Georgia, only five o’clock, and Americans were not awake yet. At least most were not.
President Davis looked away from the television screen and at Palmer.
“There it is,” Palmer said.
“I agree,” Stone said, working off his champagne hangover. Thankfully, Fox and Diamond hadn’t been called into the early-morning meeting in the White House.
“There are other options,” Lantini protested mildly, drawing a curious stare from Stone.
“We’ve got to do it,” Sewell said, then looked at Stone.
Three to one, Davis thought, then said, “Pull the trigger.”
Chapter 80
The next morning Saul Fox and Dick Diamond licked their lips as they watched the video of Secretary Stone assaulting Meredith Morris. From a speaker in the corner of the office, Jean Valjean was belting out “Who am I?” from Les Miserables.
“We could not have asked for better timing,” Fox said.
“Nothing better,” Diamond agreed, stuffing his digital assistant into his suit coat pocket.
The two men sat in Fox’s office, where they always seemed to be. His was a large square workspace with a huge mahogany desk and matching conference table that jutted off the front of the desk forming a T. The arrangement allowed Fox to sit at his command center while his minions briefed him, talked to him, paid homage, whatever the task. Diamond, however, being as important as Fox, sat in a leather chair to the side of Fox’s desk, facing him.
“So let’s review the bidding,” Fox said.
“Let’s,” Diamond concurred.
“First, these silly Rolling Stones have been trying to do an amateur diversion in the Pacific to divert attention and forces away from that which will give us lasting fame.”
“Do we know who all the members are? Do we need to do anything more regarding the Rolling Stones?”
“Well, Stone is obviously Jagger and Takishi is one of them. Probably Rathburn also. Then, of course, you know who the fourth is.”
“Yes. Mighty surprising, don’t you think?” Diamond asked uncomfortably. In fact, he had no idea what Fox was talking about, but decided to play along. Does he really know?
“I do, but as long as we can keep him saying publicly that Iraq is a threat, the idea builds a momentum all its own, even if privately he’s participating in a scheme to forestall the invasion.”