Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“When is the fuckin’ air con gonna be restored on this goddamn boat?” Colonel Sigurd “Big Sig” Andersen yells into a black phone swallowed by his meaty palm.

Outside the air temperature is a mild eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit. Inside the steel hull of the Guam, the temperature has not descended below ninety-five for the past twenty-seven hours, when the central air-conditioning unit quit in a spasm of fits and coughs.

“I am giving you until 0600 to fix that unit or else there is going to be a goddamned mutiny and I am going to lead it! Is that clear?” Andersen slams the phone down onto the wall-mounted cradle. He is commander of the two thousand United States Marines aboard ship. Nick has never witnessed a senior officer so completely lose his cool. He wonders if it’s the heat that has precipitated the violent discharge. Or if it’s the presence of a shifty “civilian analyst” who boarded the Guam at their last port of call in Hong Kong, and who has spent the last eighteen hours holed up in the radio room engaging in a top-secret tête-à-tête with company unknown.

Jack Keely sits three paces from Nick. He is smoking a cigarette and nervously pinching the copious rolls of fat that fall over the belt of his trousers. He is waiting to begin his briefing on a clandestine operation Nick has been chosen to lead. A “black op,” in the parlance of spooks and their obedient surrogates.

Andersen collapses into a beat-up leather recliner and motions for Keely to get up and begin speaking.

Keely is nervous. His audience numbers only seven, yet he fidgets constantly, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. He avoids eye contact and stares at some fixed point on the wall behind Nick and his fellow marines. Between draws on his cigarette, he provides sketchy details of their assignment.

A Filipino, one Arturo de la Cruz Enrile, has been speaking out against the government in Manila, demanding the usual reforms: honest vote counts, redistribution of land, better medical care. Here on the southwestern corner of Mindanao, Enrile has built a following of between five hundred and two thousand guerrillas. They are armed with AK-47s, RPGs, and RPKs: leftover weaponry from the Russkies’ vacation fifteen years ago.

But Enrile’s a communist. And he’s popular. Not a bad guy, really, but he has Manila worried. Recovery is finally picking up steam. Subic Bay and Olongapo are booming. The P.I. are back from the dead. There is even talk about re-leasing Subic Bay and Clark Airfield to the Americans, says Keely. And that is the clincher. The President will do anything to get back that naval base. One brand spanking new naval installation that will save him five hundred million dollars from this year’s defense budget. Big wampum in Washington.

Keely pauses and takes a long drag on his cigarette. He wipes away the rivers of sweat rolling down his forehead, then continues his briefing.

Turns out the firebrand is protected by his uncle, the sheriff of Davao Province, who without his makeup is the local warlord. The sheriff likes the deal because the kid and his troops are working his pineapple plantations. The sheriff is all capitalist. When the government in Manila sent troops to arrest Enrile, they got blasted back to kingdom come. Lost a lot of men, not to mention face.

Keely shifts his feet and grins like he is getting to the good part. He grows excited and motions with his arms, a comedian doing stand-up.

“We are here,” he announces, “to sanitize the situation.” He smiles when he says it. “Sanitize”—like they were cleaning a toilet and not placing a noose around a man’s neck.

Major Donald Conroy, battalion S-2 (operations officer), stands and presents an outline of the mission: Nine marines will be inserted onto the beaches of Mindanao, twenty kilometers north of metropolitan Zamboanga. First Lieutenant Neumann will lead eight men along the Azul River through the jungle to a small farm at coordinates 71059 latitude, 1224604 longitude. There they will establish a firing line and await further instructions. Nick is to take with him a second “looey” from Kentucky named Johnny Burke. Burke is an expert marksman just out of advanced infantry school. He will go ashore carrying only his Winchester 30.06 rifle with fifteen power magnification scope. They call him Quaalude because he is able to slow his pulse to under forty beats per minute and squeeze off rounds between heartbeats. Only a dead man could keep his body stiller. He maxed the range at Quantico from 100, 200, and 500 yards. First time since Vietnam ended.

Nick and his men lie prone in a gravel-strewn gully six kilometers inland. Three hundred yards in front of them stands a clapboard farmhouse in the middle of a dirt clearing, surrounded by jungle. Chickens and pigs wander around the unkempt yard.

Since their landing at 0245, the marines have covered fifteen clicks through uncut jungle, following the winding path of the Azul River, which in fact is no more than a stream. In some places it is dry and overgrown with jungle foliage. The marines rely on Nick to find the next outcropping of water.

It is 0700. Nick and his men are fatigued and must take salt tablets to combat the loss of water. He double-checks the Magellan Satnav direction finder and confirms they are bang on their coordinates. He tunes in the operational frequency and keys in a double-click to confirm their position, then signals for Ortiga, his Filipino gunnery sergeant, to fall in. Ortiga is a small soldier, five foot five on his best day, and tired after humping through the dense undergrowth. He flops down beside the first lieutenant. Next to Ortiga lies Quaalude, breathing unevenly. He is a pasty white. Ortiga, a former navy corpsman, checks Burke’s pulse and heart rate. Pulse is 110, heart fluttering. Heat exhaustion. Lost his conditioning aboard the Guam. No way Quaalude can take the shot.

Nick removes the Winchester 30.06 from Burke’s back and instructs Ortiga to keep pouring fluids down Burke’s throat. Even if Burke can’t shoot he’ll have to hump out like the rest of them.

Nick’s walkie-talkie burps and squelches. Keely. A white pickup will arrive at the farmhouse in fifteen minutes. Arturo de la Cruz Enrile will be alone.

Above the nine marines, the jungle canopy comes to life as the first rays of morning sun warm the uppermost leaves. A red-beaked macaw screams.

Nick hefts the Kentuckian’s rifle. It is long and heavy, at least twice the weight of the M-16 with grenade launcher that Nick and his men carry. Burke has carved “USMC,” and under it “First to Fight,” into the stock of his rifle. Nick raises the weapon to his shoulder and presses his eye to the scope. The magnification is so great that he can zero in on the ear of a sow rooting in the garden.

The morning is hot and calm. Steam rises from the clearing. Nick’s eyes burn. The sweat from his forehead has melted the jungle camouflage painted onto his face. He signals for his men to take their weapons off safety. No aggressors reported in this sector, but the jungle has eyes. Burke is feeling better. He pukes into the dry creek bed at his feet. Ortiga gives him more water.

An engine backfires far off in the distance. Nick makes out the road leading to the ramshackle farmhouse at the opposite end of the clearing. In a moment, an ancient Ford pickup rumbles into view. Maybe it’s white, but all he can see is rust and the gray of unprotected metal. The glare of the morning sun off the windshield keeps him from noting if the driver is alone.

The pickup stops behind the farmhouse.

Nick cannot see anyone. He hears a voice. Enrile is yelling. He is expecting someone. Nick can’t make out what he is saying. Is it Tagalog?

Enrile comes round the side of the farmhouse and walks toward Nick. Through the scope he appears to be less than ten meters away. He is wearing a clean white guayabera shirt. His hair is wet, combed back neatly over his forehead. Dressed for church.