Open Season by Cameron Curtis (early reader books TXT) 📗

Laguindingan International Airport, or CGY. A quick hop to Manila, and the Garcias will board an international flight to Los Angeles.

Our little convoy leaves the plantation behind and drives to the main highway leading to Cagayan De Oro. Mindanao is a vast plateau, with mountainous country in the middle. The lush green slopes of Mount Kitanglad fill our rearview mirrors.

“Army’s up ahead,” Poso calls.

I squint. Four olive drab Humvees wait on the shoulder of the highway. Two on either side of the intersection. Bandonil will be in the second Humvee on the left. “Tiger Two, this is Delos Actual. Lead the way.”

The two lead Humvees pull out, and Henke follows them. Once our SUVs are on the highway, the two trailing Humvees pull into the column behind Keefe.

Bandonil’s Humvees are understrength and under-armed. A US Army platoon would have five Humvees, not four. The Humvees would carry Browning fifty-caliber machine guns on pintle mounts. The American platoon would have at least one Mark 19 automatic 40 mm grenade launcher. A machine gun that empties a drum magazine of grenades in a matter of seconds. The American platoon’s firepower would dominate the field for a half-mile radius around the convoy.

The Philippine Army platoon’s firepower is a disgrace. Only Bandonil’s Humvee has a fifty caliber. The platoon has no automatic grenade launcher.

“They never make me feel as safe as you guys do,” Johnny says.

“That’s kind of you, Mr Garcia,” I tell him. “They’re not bad. And they follow pragmatic rules of engagement.”

The Philippines has had a problem with its Muslim population since 1521. The famous explorer Ferdinand Magellan never actually circumnavigated the earth. He stopped for fresh water in the Philippines, and a local chief lopped his head off. More recently, Muslim militants in Mindanao conducted bombings, took over whole cities, and massacred Christian hostages. The president put the whole island under martial law. Heavy artillery and air strikes were used to annihilate insurgent positions.

It’s easy to see how an international food company might get nervous. It’s no fun trying to operate a business in a war zone. Hiring private security consultants protects their staff and keeps their executive insurance premiums down.

Highway is a generous term to describe this two-lane road. Traffic is moderate. Cars and light trucks. Traffic tends to move at the speed of the slowest vehicle on the road. You have to wait till there is no traffic coming the other way before you pass. If your vehicle is underpowered, or carrying four tons of extra armor and bulletproof glass, passing can make for entertaining moments. The good news is civilian vehicles make way for Bandonil’s Humvees.

“Heads up, eyes open,” I say into the mike. “We’re approaching another town.”

Stretches between towns are low-threat zones. You’re doing fifty or sixty miles an hour on a well-maintained two-lane road. You’re a fast-moving target. Towns are high-threat areas because you slow down. Insurgents hide among the local population. Rooftops are natural elevated positions from which they mount ambushes.

But—attacking inside a town risks civilian casualties. Unless the town is home to a Christian population, insurgents don’t want civilians hurt. That means the riskiest areas are approaches to and exits from towns. Because vehicles are either slowing, or have yet to speed up. Because the civilian population is not at peak density.

Poso’s voice crackles in my ear. “Actual. Kid on a bike, two o’clock.”

My eyes swivel to the clock reference. A little girl, maybe twelve years old, sits on a bicycle. One leg on a pedal, the other providing support, she waits by the side of the road. Watches the convoy pass.

“Got her.”

“Just watching the wheels,” Poso says.

“Team, this is Actual. Kid on a bike, right side. Could be a spotter. Keefe, get your eyes on her.”

I grip my M4 more tightly. It’s locked and loaded. We pass the girl and slow as we enter the town.

Keefe is watching the girl in his rearview mirror.

“Actual.” Keefe’s voice is high. “Kid’s got a phone. Repeat, kid’s got a phone.”

“Roger that.” I flick the safety off my M4. “Team, this is Actual. You are cleared hot.”

Garcia leans forward. “What’s wrong, Breed?”

“Maybe nothing, Mr Garcia. Get Chrissie’s head on the seat. Cover her with your body, like we showed you.”

Bandonil should have heard the exchange.

“Tiger Two, this is Delos Actual.”

“Go ahead, Delos Actual.”

“There may have been a spotter back there.”

“We saw her,” Bandonil says. I can hear the strain in his voice.

My head is on a swivel, looking left and right, up and down. Rooftops, intersections. We’re doing fifteen miles an hour, a sitting target. The road curves ahead of us. Soon, we’ll be able to accelerate out of the town.

“Henke, Poso.”

“Go ahead, Actual.”

“Anything goes down, watch for escape routes. We are here to protect our principals, not fight insurgents.”

“Copy.”

I raise the muzzle of my M4, careful not to flag Carmichael. He has both hands on the wheel. As the driver, his job is to drive. We are sitting inside a tank, complete with bulletproof glass an inch and a half thick. Certified proof against bullets far more powerful than AK47 cartridges. Our own rifles are useless unless we open the windows or dismount. A last resort, but anything is possible.

There. An intersection, as we start to come free of the town’s congestion. To our left, open fields. To the right, a gasoline station. At the end of a short street of cheap buildings and sari-sari stores. Set back twenty or thirty yards from the highway. A wide parking lot in front.

I watch a big five-ton truck pull away from the gas station. A surplus deuce-and-a-half, its flatbed loaded with sacks of cement. It rattles onto the road, gray dust shaking from the sacks. They are piled five high, supported by wooden rails.

An electric shiver races over my shoulders. “Tiger Two,” I say.

Before I can get the warning out, the deuce-and-a-half surges into the middle of the intersection and stops in front of the lead Humvee. Too late, the army driver brakes. The Humvee crashes into the