Window Above the Porch: A Novel

By Kevin Costanzi

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796019216

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Copyright © 2019 by Kevin Costanzi.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019902493

ISBN:                  Hardcover                     978-1-7960-1923-0

                            Softcover                       978-1-7960-1922-3

                            eBook                            978-1-7960-1921-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official positions or views of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) or any other U.S. Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying U.S. Government authentication of information or CIA endorsement of the author’s views. This material has been reviewed by the CIA to prevent disclosure of classified information. This does not constitute an official release of CIA information.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/18/2019

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CONTENTS

Part One—Republic of the Philippines; Like Little Raissa

A Blessed Hand

Leanings Of Faith

Interlude

Part Two—Iraq; As If A Sacred Thing

Elite Combat Officer That He Was

Passed By God’s Hand

Freight-Train’s Finesse

Terrain And Vague Purpose

What Might Be Said

The Most Harmful Of Things

Imperfect Recovery

Interlude

Fluid-Like Reactions

Leopards Of The Tigris

Wartime Sin

Part Three—Iraq; Under Crossed Swords

Beast Ascendent

Out Of Flat Surfaces

Something Distastful Comes

To A Pistol’s Voice

Hints Of Accusation

Interlude

Unexpected Role Reversal

A Rumbling In The Distance

Part Four—Iraq; Old Military Myths

Window Above The Porch

A Good And Decent Man

Reply Sincerely Acknowledged

Part Five—Iraq; Along Routes Lion And Tiger

Animal-Like Display

Once At Assault Positions

Sharpening

The Smell Of Blood

Speed And Movement’s Spell

Spirit-Like Events

Struggle To Which You Are Obliged

Part Six—Iraq/The Republic of the Philippines; Devotion’s Light

Dying Momentum’s Sway

Our Faith In Each Other

A Kiss From On High

To the memory of my father: Phillip Michael Costanzi

1932 to 2010

The battle was like the grinding of an immense and terrible machine to him. Its complexities and powers, its grim processes, fascinated him.

—Stephen Crane

What was that about? War had shown its claws, and stripped off its mask of coziness.

—Ernst Junger

The strangeness of death and destiny was legible upon lives and faces which held no strangeness of their own. For it is the union of the ordinary and the miraculous that makes wonder.

—Thomas Wolfe

PART ONE

Republic of the Philippines

LIKE LITTLE RAISSA

SEPTEMBER 12, 2001

Manta Naval Base, Mindanao

A BLESSED HAND

A route through dense forest was overcome one step at a time. The dwindling of vine and brush and bark rewarded with expanded senses of liberation. Sea-breezes set loose in thinning branches fueled their lungs on more refreshing breaths. Amended star-light applied in frosty strokes restored the relief of terrain that minutes before had been lost to darkness. Footing more assured, spirits less oppressed, their pace grew robust until a fence stopped progress.

Praise God and the Prophet…it was a simple plan. No rifles or explosives were carried on their backs. No pistols or knives were hidden in their clothes. They were merely pursuing the nascent phases of weaponless sabotage. The objective of their boldness was to undermine the government’s authority. To the Philippine Navy and their American patrons a bothersome missive was to be delivered. The back door of contested territory stepped through discretely, the village that was Manta’s main post would be completely avoided. The infiltration point located in an unexpected quadrant and within easy reach of leafy cover, security was sure to be light.

Confident of dispositions in their favor, prayers soliciting His benevolent protection were offered more out of habit than need. After all points of the compass were assessed for danger, wire cutters invited an opening into the cold steel of chain link. Crouching through the incision, on its other side their backs were straightened. There they found themselves among treeless landscapes carved from the huge installation’s landward shoulder.

In the clear now, they moved with greater speed. Graceful strides cut through the thigh-high grasses of broad lowland meadows as if their knees were the prows of passing ships. Rapidly ascending a low hill commanding the coastal depressions around it, the band’s leader stopped them at its top. Exploiting the views provided, Angel—his name for security’s sake only—looked from its crest.

Navy base appeared in repose below their feet. A supporting airstrip was nudged against a crescent bay. The moonless-night’s soft light dappled in a sea upon which a few worn patrol craft bobbed at their moorings. Searching faint twists in the road still in front of them, nothing alarming stood out. Absent were the flicker of headlights, the purr of motors and the hostile shifting in shadows. Fields surrounding them rustled benignly under the strum of slender winds. Insects chanted faithfully in tidal ripples and grass’s sweetness coupled agreeably with the ocean’s heady brine.

Sensing movement overhead, Angel’s attention was drawn to constellations in the sky. Crisply fixed within dark housings, the messages conveyed in their furtive blinking further confirmed for him the presence of a blessed and all-knowing hand. Against them, he picked out an aircraft’s pulsing strobes, the thing that had first sparked his interest. The sigh of its engines barely heard, it passed from view…perhaps preparing to land at the base’s runway.

Reminded by it of discovery’s potential, there was a twinge of unease. All was going well, of course. No menace was concealed in its flight.

But still. A twinge.

Operational Section Ten was one of Abu Sayyaf ’s insurgent elements and Angel’s humble instrument of Islamic uprising. The implement used to advance his desires, it was regularly taxed to promote religiously inspired revolution…to attain flawed but resolute contributions to his people’s eventual autonomy. Made malleable by the responsibilities inherent in that, he raised fingers until a birthmark was touched. The blemish that stained his left eye’s estate in blotchy semi-circle, his hand sought it out at moments like this without thinking….

***

Coming off the rise, Ferdi—a strapping man filled out against broad shoulders—took lead position. Balances in hips and spine realigned as they transitioned from the slope’s vertical plane to the valley floor’s horizontal one. Deeper vistas slowly sinking out of lines of sight, more narrow ones began to take their places. Crossing the dirt road observed from the height, a turn was made parallel to it. Ten minutes more and the targeted machinery appeared. Two bulldozers and a grader were parked on turf torn by the impressions of their own treads. Hulking forms motionless under the stars like hibernating animals, they were neared watchfully. His senses polished to a breathless edge, Angel was careful. Probably no guards were posted overnight. The equipment was usually left untended. Taking one’s time when it was available, however, was never a bad thing.

When they were sure all was safe, Ferdi was left behind to keep watch. Inserting themselves among the assembly, the first fuel cap was unscrewed. Hacking gasoline’s bitterness from their throats, the substance inside a small bag was poured into the opening.

In contaminating fuel tanks with sugar the impression was left of being cheated somehow. The playing of a child’s petty trick embezzled satisfaction found in more forceful acts. Squandered were the pleasures to be had in fires or explosions. That was natural for a soldier. Even Angel would feel it.

As the sack deflated, though, he recalled the decisions taken over the long years cutting trail from Mabini. It was the way he, overruling his superiors, had wanted it. Tools to improve access roads, these tractors would be unserviceable for a short time. Pending the availability of parts to make repairs, at the most it would be a day or two. But when the struggle’s duration was calculated in decades, battles were won in such increments. More derangement of a project they had already disturbed quite a bit.

There was security inherent in this. In slight pressure relentlessly applied—never to the point of outrage—was a safety both physical and moral. It was the kind of thing found in rain over time beating down a rock face or in a river carving canyons from hillsides. Neither his men, nor any bystanders, nor even the enemy, would be harmed. In his estimation, given what he had seen and what he had contributed to in the past—the remorse in undisclosed violence he knew so well—that was how best to move mountains. More inconvenienced than angered, labor’s managers would consider it business’s price. They would not push for retaliation too forcefully. The upgrade nearing completion, the Americans were not to be stopped. To try would be self-defeating, would only incite dangerous reaction. Yet opposition’s sting could still be levied. And the Prophet, Angel had convinced himself, favored the elegance in corrosive ways.

Just then he heard bone clunk. The whispered curse in English that George C stifled was built around a verbal structure both unusual and engaging.

Angel turned.

Hit me in the head with a flying turd?

In pained Tagalog George instructed him.

I scraped my shin on this machine. My leg is on fire.

But…’hit me in the head with a flying turd?’

It is a crude phrase. Is it not?

It is. What does it mean?

George C folded the wronged limb against his backside and rubbed it in an effort to sooth the pain.

It means…. I believe it means….

He switched back to English, used a term he’d once encountered on imported TV.

…bugger me.

Eyes narrowed, Angel wondered if he’d heard correctly. Sorting through it, the link from one to the other was searched for.

Truly?

George shook his head.

I picked it up from Raissa.

Raissa?

She is a bad influence on me.

She is only eight years old.

That is accurate.

How could she be a bad influence on anyone?

I admit. It does not seem possible.

And…?

She is a bad influence on me just the same.

George C was older than his comrades, not as tactically sound, not as physically fit. Prone to episodes of short-lived cowardice, he was to be listened to none-the-less…or perhaps because of that. Like all of them, he had abandoned his birth name for the sake of deceptions permitting less-monitored operation, if not his faith in the one true religion to which it had been bound. He was one of Angel’s longest known companions. He was his brother in God’s army.

Where did she learn this phrase?

What phrase?

Angel answered with accusatory silence.

Well…it is English, is it not? Which means she has been playing by the main gate. Against my orders. She must have heard it said there. From an American advisor.

When did she tell her father this new saying?

Only an American would say such a thing.

Yes. An American. And when….?

I will tell you. She did not choose a private moment. It was my good fortune that she decided to repeat it in front of the whole family. My parents. My brother and his wife. Their children. She had been told to make ready for bed. Raissa looked at her mother, put her hands on her hips and said, ‘hit me right in the head with a flying turd.’

Raissa is very colorful.

Too colorful, I think.

But still…

Yes?

It shows intelligence.

Does it?

A quick and adaptive mind.

Are you sure?

You are not proud?

Well? Yes. I suppose. Every family should have such a child. Do you not agree? Her mother prays. She petitions the Prophet every night. So that Raissa should learn more vulgarities from the Americans. If luck holds, our daughter can continue to demonstrate them in front of her pious and judgmental mother-in-law.

***

When finished disabling the rest of the equipment, they rejoined Ferdi. Moving together again, they loped back the way they had come. They made good time, were well into their final kilometer. Closing on the fence’s line, a rising terrain feature was briskly climbed. Angel was just beginning to picture its end when there was a noise.

Ferdi stopped, crouched lower.

Angel stopped with him.

There was another noise, again on the slope’s other side. It was faint, unusual. Something in it demanded attention. Definitely man-made, it carried the signature of a group of strangers. Compelled to action–any action–the urge was fought. He cautioned himself, not yet. Steady.

And there it was. A commotion erupted to their front. A voice issued commands in the midst of movement in imperative forms. Several ape-like grunts were noted that induced Angel’s back muscles to cramp painfully, triggered a dread that broke out in his deep places. Questions burned and shook. What could it be? A security patrol? The Americans? Seeking answers, they dropped onto their bellies in tall grass, hunted details that would support judgments about what was being done to whom. But it was no use. The rise hid action. The breeze distorted sound. The combination placed comprehension out of reach.

For the moment made immobile by it, Angel had nothing to do but arbitrate perpetually competing sides of himself. An argument among rival sentiments and outlooks was moderated. There was the cooler side of him that took stock, evaluated courses-of-action, encouraged the guerilla commander he once was to calmly review options. Run or wait it out? And there was the heated side that squinted painfully, breathed erratically, launched volatile waves into his bladder. This side leveled accusations of failure and weakness. It reprimanded in all too familiar voices that he had let George’s chatter remind him of his own daughters. That, the voice maintained, was all it took to make this mistake. That was all it took to misstep.

He weathered both influences before reining the one in. His hand drifting to the birthmark, his mind cleared to the usual comforting refrain. As God wills. He sniffed out the correct way. Run and attention would be attracted. This close? Attention would be attracted for sure. Just because he could not see did not mean he could not be seen. He repeated it until it rang more sweetly. Wait.

His decision made, the minutes were counted off. And then, as rapidly as it began, the uproar ended. There was a brief and hallowed silence. This was followed by the faintest hint of something behind it–where the disturbance had been. What may have been a small group ambled northward from them.

Ferdi crawled to Angel’s side.

What was that?

I do not know. I can only say I do not particularly want to know.

Angel held his breath.

George C crawled to his other side.

I smell horse.

Ferdi added.

As do I.

Angel too had heard what must have been a hoof on stone. He had recognized the animal scents in the wind. But now? Whoever it was, it seemed they were no longer there.

We will stay where we are. Horses can only mean one thing. A mounted constabulary patrol. Perhaps apprehending scavengers from the village. We will give them time to move well past this place.

George C pointed out.

I do not like it.

Ferdi concurred.

Nor do I.

That is good. I also do not like it. That is why, as I said before, we will remain here.

Their agreement sanctioned in a lack of response, they made themselves comfortable within nests quietly pressed into breeze-tossed grasses. Time was marked swatting gnats from their eyes. George C’s body slackened and Angel jabbed his ribs with an elbow to impede the snoring that followed. Stars blazed above. Angel counted them. Another aircraft’s secluded blinking was noted within their midst. One light moving slowly among many, it glided languidly overhead to the bay.

SEPTEMBER 12, 2001

Manta Naval Base, Mindanao

LEANINGS OF FAITH

A two-engine transport out of Manila lowers itself into warmer air as a chilled man lowers himself into a hot bath. From the icy altitude of nine thousand meters to the balmier one of three thousand meters, Philippine Air Force flight Oscar Foxtrot 0045 banks into its holding orbit. Lift flairs to the extension of flaps as they enter the first gate of an approach to Manta’s runway. A greenish-blue material adhered to the fuselage less securely under rising temperatures glows in the flashing light of navigation beacons. At the point captivating bonds sufficiently weaken, it frees itself in a quivering lunge into the night.

The aircraft passes on, its engines howling, its crew oblivious to their machine’s behavior. The falling object fractures, unable under competing stresses to maintain its integrity. Its largest piece gains speed until terminal velocity is reached. To the command of transitory nature it shifts from form to form so that grooves, pits and craters are eaten into candied surfaces. These catch the wind just so to produce flute-like moaning. In this way the projectile the thing becomes slices through pillows of tropical air. A clammy, musical meteor, it is destined for a meeting with fields just west of the naval base.

***

Starting from a doze, Angel blinked his head clear. Eager to be on his way, the hiding spot was arisen from a bit at a time. Views over the brush were slowly improved, the secrecy of his presence sustained with thoughtful turns of his head. His mind allowed to labor, it pushed to a conclusion free from guidance. While endings were found on their own, he was serenaded by crickets in untiring pulses. Out of lighthearted breezes a moth riding insubstantial wings flew against his mouth. It was snorted away. When no movement was seen, when no menacing shapes appeared, internal gearing caught hold. It was as safe as it would ever be, he concluded. They could not wait there forever.

He shook the others from their inertia. Ferdi was up in an instant, George C a short, sleepy time later. They started out perpendicular to their previous route, hoping to avoid the disturbance’s address. After traversing legs of sufficient geometry, Angel turned them parallel to their original course. Keeping his ears cocked, ready to stop again, ready to hide, his tactical file was herded onward.

Dew had collected in the grass as dawn approached. Soaking through their pants, traveling the last distance it rubbed cool and oily against their legs. An unexpected gully was encountered, the ground rolled ponderously at its border. Ferdi fell from sight as it was stepped into, reappeared as he was chased by the others. Deep in the trough, they felt their way through the dust of its waterless spillway. Climbing the contrasting bank, Ferdi slowed his pace. Then he stopped.

The halt caught Angel off-guard and he stumbled slightly. When they remained still longer than was thought appropriate, he stepped forward. There was a presence at his shoulder, George C with him. When near enough, his partner’s ear was whispered into.

…is something wrong?

Ferdi didn’t move. His head in cameo against stars on the horizon, something was examined. A breath was taken in disgust.

Blessed God. It is a horse. A dead horse!

Angel gazed at the spot indicated as outlines ordered themselves out of shadow. There was indeed what looked like a single animal lying on its side, soil-covered and lathered.

There is another one over here.

Speaking from behind them, George C indicated a second form, closer but lower, harder to see, a step away.

There is blood everywhere.

Attempting to process what was before them, their knees were dropped to. Reaching with his fingers, Angel investigated the scene. An animal’s barrel-like chest was touched, its sinewy muscle draped in sheets over a bony frame. Death was recent. He was fairly sure of that. The remains were warm, the joints loose, the blood wet. The oozy mess stuck to the hairs of his forearms paste-like. Raw tissue’s brackish odors rested in his sinuses. Widening his range through gathering flies, he soon discovered one of the riders, arms folded at a marionette’s angles under a motionless torso.

Submitting whispered comment, Angel’s voice seemed disembodied to his own ear.

Constabulary. Ambushed.

George C asked.

But how? There were no gunshots. Is this what we heard? Is it?

A moment was taken to ponder the question.

Then Ferdi ordered.

Come here!

Apprehensive of the directive’s sentiment, Angel allowed his hand to be taken and—as if he were a blind person learning to read—drawn over a lifeless face. Fingertips brushed a forehead’s pimpled bulb, the coarse fur of eye-brows, a large flat nose…then the precisely severed throat. Exposed and steaming flesh had been made naked to the air, the gummy insides turned outside. The slice’s cavity was whipped into spume laced with chunks of what could only be skin, bone and fat.

Ferdi made a hushed suggestion.

Now would be an excellent time to leave this place.

Revolted, Angel withdrew his hand and nodded in numbed assent. Merciful God. When first heard, the disturbance had not been associated with anything so violent. It had seemed too subdued…too submissive. There had been no gunfire. No anti-personnel mines were used. The classic means of initiating hostile contact had been shunned. These policemen were heavily armed, an automatic rifle and pistol carried by each. Their weapons were now thrown about the grass un-discharged. The attackers had somehow stalked their prey, silently approached trained horses which should have sensed intruders. They had killed the animals before moving on to their passengers. All of it was accomplished without firing a shot. Hardly a sound had been made at all. An enhanced style of cunning had been leveraged that destroyed mounted men with nothing more than knives.

Wiping seeping fluids on his trousers, Angel pivoted on his hips to the left and right.

But why?

That was the question.

The dead had not come across their killers accidentally. This was a trap’s remains. Some plan launched to obtain a reasonable objective must have been followed. That implied purpose. But what could it be? Their weapons had not been taken. All other equipment was in place. It hadn’t been to restock. Was this the raising of a political point? A message from Abu Sayyaf? Perhaps. That would be an easy answer. Yet…? Here in the middle of nowhere? There were better places to do that, more visible places. Tortured for information? What information could these two have had when living that could not be obtained more safely, with less investment, by a few well placed bribes in Manta City alleyways?

Angel couldn’t discover the sense in it. He couldn’t add it up. The strangeness in the way its facts collected jolted his hub out of alignment. The way it reminded him of his history struck his heart cold. Stumped, frustrated, he backed off. He signaled for George C and Ferdi to do the same. Cricket songs, previous sources of comfort, presently took on threat’s bent. They hid the stray rustlings of another attack’s potential prelude. And whoever had done this