across the base toward the hut with the shortwave radio.
Locsin then occupied himself with dealing with the reports of his ranking officers who reported losses. He ordered a group
formed immediately to give chase after the Chor-7s on foot, but even as he watched his men hurry off to carry out his directives,
he knew that if that commando unit and the Jefferses were to be stopped, if those suddenly
very
valuable hostages were brought back, it was now up to Arturo Javier. The Chor-7s had already outdistanced anything Locsin
could send after them.
He dismissed the last of his men with their instructions for cleanup and tightening security.
It was out of his hands, for now.
There would be Javier’s curiosity to deal with as to why he had remained silent concerning the presence of the Jeffers family
at this base. The missing Americans had been well-publicized by the world media and the Filipino press since their kidnapping.
He told himself that just because he and Javier were associates was no reason to expect either of them to confide in the other
every manner of business not connected directly with their association.
He decided that Javier’s reaction to learning about the hostages that had been held here was the least of his concerns.
Getting those hostages back was Top Priority, and he told himself that is what would happen now.
Arturo Javier had the money and connections to enlist the very best. There would be a full squad of them closing in on that
group from every direction within moments after Escaler sent the radio message.
Americans.
Locsin gave the destruction and death everywhere around him another look.
As the full extent of the damage and loss began to sink in—flames still tonguing the dawn, the dead not yet moved, the wounded
screaming—as all of this sank in, Locsin wondered again what manner of strike force had assaulted his base this morning.
He hated to admit it, and would admit it to no other, but he was impressed. Depressingly so.
He had been trained by the Marcos military as an infantryman and he knew he would be there today had he not considered other,
more profitable means of making money, such as joining with and working his way up through the ranks of the New People’s Army.
The NPA lived in the mountains like animals for the time being, true, but he had his own bank accounts in Switzerland which
he fattened regularly with spoils of the occasional raid against a settlement, or the looting of an Army outpost (under the
guise of “military actions” of the NPA.)
He was satisfied with this arrangement for the time being and made sure that those he commanded, including Escaler, knew nothing
of the secret bank accounts.
Most of those who served with him were disposessed farmers as well as many from the country’s shrinking middle class who had
joined the lower class because they had done something to cross the ruling class; people with legitimate gripes, being used
by forces outside the Philippines who knew they could not command such a force unless they had men like Locsin, who were cynical
and smart enough not to do it unless they were paid well.
Locsin commanded with the understanding that, when the day came, he would share in the new power.
As a military man who retained everything the government’s military training schools could teach him, he was, yes, most impressed
with whatever small force had struck and left such awful, near total ruin as that which smoldered and screamed around him
at this moment.
He would forever be forced to bear the humiliation of what had happened here this day. It would forever taint his reputation,
his name.
He
owed
something to the men who had done this and it was a debt he would repay if he ever got the chance—in kind.
In blood.
But what mattered more than that, more than anything, was that the strike at the heart of the fragile new government was less
than twenty-four hours away!
This was no time for an