Red Tide, стр. 26
“That’s right,” Nathan added. “By the time we summon a carrier, and all the rest of it, there’s a high likelihood that the Sea Dragon will have slipped away.
“I trust that the two of you will work together to create the intelligence network that Kelsey mentioned, and to ensure a quick response in case of a sighting.”
The meeting came to an end ten minutes later. And, as Ryson returned to his cabin, a number of unanswered questions went with him. What if the plan succeeded? What if one or more of his boats managed to close with the Sea Dragon? What then? He didn’t have a clue.
CHAPTER FIVE
The town of Currimao, The Philippines
Currimao was a small town in the province of Llocos Norte. And, according to Wally, most of the 12,000 or so residents made their livings either directly or indirectly from the sea. That wasn’t unusual since roughly 800,000 Filipinos were fishermen.
The plan called for Greer to board one of the larger boats, which would carry him down Luzon’s west coast to the south end of the island where the plan became somewhat fuzzy.
“They’ll let you know,” Wally said vaguely. “Good luck Gun Daddy … You are a good man.” And with that the teenager delivered a good imitation of a salute, did an about face, and marched out the door. Bright sunlight flooded the shack for a moment and vanished when the door closed. That left Greer sitting in a hot, humid fishing shack that stank of rotting fish. “Don’t worry, someone will come,” Wally had promised. But who? And when?
The cross-island trip to Currimao had been tedious but uneventful. After a taxi ride to a safe house, and a two hour wait, a beat-up travel agency van had arrived. There was very little tourism because of the war. But there was a trickle, including a few business people from Africa. Which was consistent with Greer’s cover story and altered passport.
Sadly, the van’s AC wasn’t working, and it was hot. So much of the day was spent sitting on a hot vinyl seat, with air rumbling past the open windows, listening to an evangelical preacher on the radio. They had to stop at two checkpoints along the way.
Fortunately, the soldiers who manned them were more interested in the van’s driver than Greer. And no wonder since she was pretty.
Greer’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock and the squeak of a hinge. A man entered the shack. He was dressed in a ball cap, a dirty tee, and baggy boardshorts. A pair of ancient flip flops completed the outfit. “Put this on,” the man said without preamble. “Then grab the net that’s piled in the corner and wrap it around your briefcase.”
Greer did as he was told. The outfit was new but otherwise nearly identical to what the fisherman hand on. And while not entirely convincing, the disguise was better than walking around the docks dressed as an African businessman.
Once Greer was ready the man led him out of the shack and onto a rickety pier. High-bowed Banca boats were tied up along both sides of the jetty. There was some variety, especially where masts were concerned, but most of the fishing boats were yellow.
Greer noticed that unlike the small craft pulled up on the beach, these boats weren’t fitted with outriggers, and could probably venture further out to sea. A motor rumbled, pop music floated on the air, and a power drill whined nearby.
A sway-backed gang plank led from the pier to the Saint Andrew’s cluttered deck. Greer followed the fishman over the narrow gap and down some steep stairs, into the cramped living quarters below. The overhead was so low that Greer had to duck his head. The air was thick with the combined odors of fish, diesel, and spicy food. Greer put the bundle down.
A man was standing under a light. He was relatively young, and dressed in a blue polo with immaculate white pants. A sure indication that he was something other than a fisherman. He was talking on a cellphone. “Yes, yes, I know that. But we can’t let them get away with it. Make the bastards pay. Yeah, later brother. Stay safe.”
“Sorry,” the man said, as he slipped the phone into a pants pocket. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Roberto Dalisay. And you’re the American flier called ‘Gun Daddy.’ You and I have something in common.”
“And what’s that?” Greer inquired, as they shook hands.
“We both have a price on our head,” Dalisay replied. “Although mine is much higher than yours.”
“I’m not in the least bit jealous,” Greer responded.
Dalisay laughed. “Please have a seat. The boat will depart soon, and I need to speak with you first.”
The table was little more than a polished two-foot-wide wooden plank, resting on pipes that were screwed to the deck. Stools lined both sides so that the men faced each other.
“I hope you like fish,” Dalisay said, “because you’re going to eat a lot of it. Luzon is 460 miles long. And it will take four to five days for the Saint Andrew to reach the town of Bagao, where you’ll transfer to a different boat, and make your way to Indonesia.”
“Thank you,” Greer said. “I’m grateful.”
“You fought for us,” Dalisay said. “That’s how we see it. So, we’re duty bound to help you if we can. But I must admit that I have an ulterior motive as well.”
“Which is?”
“I hope that after seeing the conditions here, and receiving assistance from the underground, you’ll become a spokesperson for our cause. We need weapons, ammo, and medical supplies. And, since Costas provides support to the Chinese, our fight is your