Project GrandSlam & The Zhongguo Orchestra

By Jos Ilagan

York Ryder is a photojournalist assigned to cover the visit of US State Secretary John Berzowski to the Philippines. When a bomb explosion killed the secretary and his USDOS delegation at the Manila Hotel, Ryder found himself working on a new assignment. This time helping the CIA Manila Station locate the killers of the American diplomats.
There’s one problem that prevents Ryder from accomplishing his mission. The CIA and the US intelligence community have no information on who killed Berzowski. Not even chatters on who hatched the attacks that annihilated half of the USDOS delegation. The British MI6 has no information to share with the CIA, and the Israeli MOSSAD seems not in the mood to assist the Americans. Not knowing their targets, the CIA seeks the assistance of its local counterpart—the National Intelligence Coordinating Agency. NICA’s operational lead produces actionable intelligence, and then a joint operation against the Hong Kong-based transnational drug syndicate ensues.
Ryder and NICA’s top-secret unit COBRA have four days to stop the Kowloon Dragon from assassinating its next target—the President of the United States.
The stake is high, and the possible outcome of the terror plot is catastrophic. Kowloon Dragon must be stopped from igniting World War III. Thus, the strict order of the CIA HQS to York Ryder is: Terminate With Extreme Prejudice. In the next four days of covert operations, all hell will break loose, and wherever York Ryder goes, blood trails will follow him.
The Zhongguo Orchestra isn’t only a political-thriller-espionage novel that covers the volatile conflict in Southeast Asia. It’s also a faith-based story and tells how York Ryder receives his inner peace amid doom and boom. After years of searching, he finally discovers the true meaning of life. And he finds his salvation in the Philippines, of all places. Truly, miracle still happens today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jos Ilagan
• Release date: Sep 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098386795

Jos Ilagan

Jos Ilagan spent eight years as Case Officer in Southeast Asia. He is an ardent student of geopolitical conflicts and writes immensely about global terrorism and security. Jos is currently crafting the sequel to the York Ryder saga titled Project Firefly & the Assyrian Conspiracy. Jos likes everything about soccer. Goal!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Street Parliamentarians

Rizal Park, Manila

Thursday, 1830H (PHT)

Yankees, go home! Yankees, go home!

No to RP-US bases treaty!

Down with US imperialism!

York Ryder had seen them all—from the violent anti-G8 Summit protest in Vicenza, Italy, to the bloody riot in Cairo, Egypt—and he could tell that the demonstration had the making of a nasty ending.

He stood amid the rowdy crowd and scanned his surroundings like a wildcat on a hunt. It was a dark and chaotic evening, yet he liked the operational condition on the ground. He operated best at night, more so in chaos.

Ryder’s subject stood still on the flatbed truck, holding a microphone like a cherished possession. He got a good shot. The activist loomed large in his powerful telephoto lens. But not for the throng of protesters gathered on Padre Burgos Avenue. They couldn’t see their leader clearly from afar. 

With the Nikon-D4 steadied on his palm, Ryder peered through the viewfinder and probed his subject on the makeshift stage. He adjusted the camera’s aperture and shutter speed to compensate for the faint light in the street. Satisfied with the depth of field, he pressed the camera button. It triggered continuous click-clacks—those mechanical hums that sounded melodiously in his ears. He consistently produced excellent shots—another set of pictures worthy of editorial praise, another front-page item for the Times. 

Ryder admired the glibness of his subject. No doubt the activist was a persuasive orator--a natural provocateur. He thought the fiery speech spewed through the parabolic speakers was hypnotic. It truly stimulated enmity in the demonstrators’ supple hearts.

He compared the activist to the bombastic German leader in the 1930s who peddled supremacy of the Aryan race. But this time, the call to arms wasn’t for a Third Reich war but civil disobedience short of a revolution. And that earned the activist a wild response from the crowd and validated Ryder’s concern about the looming danger in the night. 

As the student leader paused to catch his breath, the demonstrators filled the gap with progressive chants. Thunderous shouts reverberated through the air like a stampede of hundreds of elephants. Somewhat like an evil spell, the loud noise sent the masses into a frenzy; they screamed at the top of their lungs with reckless abandon.

Yankees, go home! Yankees, go home!

No to RP-US bases treaty!

Down with US imperialism!

Countless red banners bearing communist slogans swayed to the sound of drums and whistles. The gathering wasn’t for individuals with apathetic hearts. It was for the vociferous and militant protestors who called themselves street parliamentarians.

The activist stood on the stage like a petrified rock. It added theatrically to his performance. He tilted his head and raised his right hand, then the shouting subsided. Knowing what the crowd liked to hear, he gave it to them fervently.

"Our country suffered at great length from the foreign invaders. Four hundred years from the Spanish swords. Fifty years from the claws of the American eagle. Five years from the Japanese samurais. Listen my compatriots. Listen to me! Our motherland’s suffering would end unless freedom fighters like us stop this neo-colonization.

Let’s all unite and cut the claws of American imperialism that again tear our country apart. You who want to fight for our sovereignty, let’s unite and stop this threat in our land! Join me and break the imperialist’s claws with our progressive might! Fight on vanguards of society!"  

Yankees, go home! Yankees, go home!

No to RP-US bases treaty!

Down with US imperialism!

Ryder had heard enough of the tirades of hate from the furious activist and the boisterous crowd. After taking another shot at his subject, he proceeded to the Mobile Command Center (MCC) and looked for Jose Torres. Finding the head of the Crowd Disturbance Control Unit (CDCU) wasn’t hard. Torres stood akimbo outside the MCC as he observed the demonstrators with his staff.

Colonel seems like you’re going to end up with a messy protest tonight, Ryder said.

Torres thought that if a photojournalist noticed the anger pouring out on the street, which could signify impending trouble. His friend predicted the outcome of recent demonstrations; the probability indicated he could be right again.

I know because every time you show up in my yard, some crazy things happen.

Ryder smiled and said, Well, Colonel, just like you, I want to be where the action is.

Torres nodded. I hope you’re dead wrong with your guess this time. Stakes are high for my unit tonight. 

Any plans to disperse the demonstrators?

It sounded silly, but Ryder wanted to measure Torres’s resolve amid danger. His raw instinct never failed; it guided him through perilous field assignments. 

If the demonstrators asked for it, I would give it to them without hesitation, Torres said as he touched the gauze on his forehead. 

Ryder surveyed the surroundings at Rizal Park. If not for the streetlights on Padre Burgos Avenue and a couple of searchlights hoisted on the fire trucks’ ladders, the entire area would be in darkness. An agent provocateur could turn the protest rally into a bloodbath under that dim condition.

Sir, you’ll have a rough night if you go toe to toe with this mob, Ryder said. He caught himself meddling in police affairs. Well, it’s just my assessment.

I know. I know, Torres said as he looked at the demonstrators. But they can’t parade before me and start a riot again. No, sir!

Well, of course, it’s not tolerable.

Torres assessed the large crowd that outnumbered his CDCU eighty-to-one. Earlier in the morning, he requested the Philippine National Police (PNP) HQS to augment his unit. Even though unhurried to respond, Camp Crame sent reinforcements—five hundred police officers hauled up from the three districts in the National Capital Region. None came from the Western Police District (WPD.

Top brass at the PNP HQS deployed the WPD’s anti-riot unit in Mendiola Bridge—considered a sacred place for the leftist demonstrators. Mendiola was one of the main arteries leading to Malacañang Palace, the Philippines’ White House. Along with the Philippine Army, WPD guarded the passage from another massive protest rally.

If only the HQS agreed to my suggestion, we wouldn’t have this kind of a gathering. I could’ve dispersed these communists earlier when they were few in numbers.

Colonel, I see hatred in the marchers’ eyes. I sense they won’t leave this place without a bloody fight.

Yes, I know, these commies are itching for a battle, Torres said as he raised his hands. He pointed to his unit and shook his head. Look at my men. Just look at them! Check out their outdated equipment. So shameful!

I think they’re okay.

Torres continued with his rants and said, If only I got the logistics I requested from the HQS, we wouldn’t look as shabby as we are right now.

Just two weeks in the country, Ryder had already learned of the rampant corruption that bedeviled the PNP. Reports of senior officers diverting PNP funds to their secret bank accounts remained as gossip in tabloid newspapers. No one dared to come out as a state witness against the widespread irregularities.

Ryder observed the rows of police officers at the intersection of Padre Burgos Avenue and Roxas Boulevard. Colonel, your men looked so competent to me. I witnessed how they performed in the previous rallies and acted so well. I’m sure they could manage this unruly crowd one more time.

Thank you for the kind words, my friend. Torres nodded in approval. He wished the local press would support his Unit as Ryder did. Listen, do me a favor.

I’m all ears, Colonel. How may I help you?

I got some info. The commies planned something foolish for tonight. Torres hesitated to reveal the rebel’s plot. He decided to disclose the warning in a roundabout manner instead. Be on guard, okay? Keep yourself ready for any violent acts.

Ryder’s antenna for intelligence collection went up. Coming as it did from a senior police officer, the info undoubtedly originated from the official PNP report. What do you want me to do exactly, Colonel?

Keep your eyes glued on the frontliners.

Ryder scanned the raucous demonstrators in front of the crowd. Sure. They can’t hide from me and my friend Nikon, he said, tapping the expensive camera hanging from a sling strap.

Your friend worked wonders last week.

Yep. Nikon does it always, all the time.

I hope it can deliver again tonight.

Is there anything I need to pay close attention to, Colonel? Say, a terrorist attack against the American delegation? Or against Secretary Berzowski?

Torres glanced at the Manila Hotel, then back at the demonstrators. Keep your focus on the strikers. Those with red bandanas covering half their faces. Also, those carrying knapsacks.

I’d seen their evil acts before.

Don’t let their innocent looks fool you.

Thanks for the heads up. I owe you one, Colonel.

No, Mr. Ryder. We’re the ones indebted to you. You protected us from the brunt of the communist politicians in Congress. What your camera caught last week saved the PNP.

Ryder recalled the protest rally that ended in violence and the vitriol remarks from the leftist politicians who hugged the news. Their leaders criticized the PNP’s harsh treatment of the demonstrators. More so, the solons disparaged Torres as a big-time fascist and pilloried him for serving only the interests of his master—the United States of America.

But the pictures Ryder took for the Times told a different story. He captured the vicious moments at Mendiola Bridge. His photographs depicted the PNP as the aggrieved party, not the malevolent demonstrators. It showed that the police officers acted only in self-defense, which paralyzed the leftist group’s accusation of police brutality.

Three of the notable snapshots in the Times featured five demonstrators beating a police officer lying helplessly on the ground. Another picture showed four seminarians in white frocks throwing Molotov cocktails at the police vehicles. The third picture presented Torres with a bloodied face after a wayward stone found its mark on his forehead.

The black-and-white photograph made Torres famous. It earned him commendations from the PNP and a citation from the President. He became the poster boy of the government when they needed one. It was a clever publicity stunt when the Moran Administration used Ryder’s picture of Torres to silence the Progressive Bloc in Congress.

Colonel, I’m just doing the job my bosses ordered me to do. Please think of this also as me saying ‘thank you’ for your hospitality. You let me in and out of your turf all the time.

Only because you don’t trash my place. You’re different from the rest of your peers.

Ryder smiled and said, Just because I’m earning my living in a different way.

I’m sure you do. Stay safe, my friend.

See you around, Colonel.

Ryder left the MCC with a large black bag slung over his shoulder. His Banana Republic vest pockets, full of camera accessories, bounced as he ran past the phalanx of police officers. He went straight to the Manila Hotel ground to continue his mission. Time to collect action pictures for the company. 

Chapter 2

The Art of Diplomacy

Manila Hotel, Ermita District

Thursday, 1930H (PHT)

The Regional Security Officer (RSO) stood on the Suite’s balcony as he discussed the Security Plan (SECPLAN) with the DSS Protective Intelligence Officer (PIO). He raised his night-vision binoculars, scanned the ground below them, and observed Rizal Park and Quirino Grandstand near Manila de Bay. Both ensured that the State Department delegation’s back-door route to the US embassy got proper security coverage.

As outlined in the SECPLAN, Secretary John Berzowski’s convoy would take the Independence Road, then to the South Road on their way to the embassy on Roxas Boulevard. The street in front of Quirino Grandstand would keep the convoy away from the demonstrators assembled on the stretch of Padre Burgos Avenue. A two-kilometer drive and less than five-minute travel from Manila Hotel looked easy for the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS).

If there were signs of danger in transporting Berzowski to the embassy, the DSS would shelve Plan One and activate their alternate plan. Plan Two called for the immediate relocation of Berzowski to the Holding Room in the MacArthur Suite. It was the place where the RSO and the PIO monitored the surrounding areas.

Berzowski requested the Suite to be DSS’s emergency holding area. His admiration for General Douglas MacArthur wasn’t a secret in DSS. He hoped to hang out where his hero stayed during the Philippines’ liberation from the Japanese Imperial Forces.

USDOS’s SECPPLAN involved a Task Force from DSS and PNP; each agency had its specific assignment in the concentric security rings.

Torres’s CDCU covered the Outer Ring and charged to keep the demonstrators from Manila Hotel. It was a complex assignment, but the support provided by Police Security and Protection Group (PSPG) and DSS—units assigned to cover the Middle Ring—made CDCU’s load bearable. The areas covered by PSPG and DSS included Manila Hotel and its premises.

If the Outer and Middle Rings teams failed to contain the threats within their spheres, the DSS security close-ins assigned in the Inner Ring would be the last wall of defense. Close-ins would encircle Berzowski and keep him inside the security bubble as they proceed to the MacArthur Suite.

Meanwhile, in the Centennial Hall, Berzowski stood behind the podium reciting his speech off the teleprompter. He sprinkled his oration with flowery words like a seasoned diplomat in front of hundreds of guests. In the end, he recapped his discourse by referencing the historical ties between the United States and the Philippines. No one could do it better than the man who’d lived a part of that history.

Our countries have a unique friendship that started more than a century ago. Through the years, we stuck together in good and bad times. Yes, we bonded like loyal friends. And there are historical facts that attest to this closeness. Our alliance flourished when we fought the Japanese in World War II. You supported us in the Korean War when you sent PEFTOK. Even in the Vietnam War, you helped through the PHILCAG. And in 2003, your country sent a contingent to Iraq to us in Operation Enduring Freedom. This bond is a manifestation that our country has supported each other for over a hundred years. I applaud your devotion and commitment to our common goals.

Berzowski paused as the guests clapped, then resumed his speech when the applause subsided.

Our countries have a mutual interest to ensure that freedom and democracy prevail in all nations. Our affinity plays a significant role in shaping world history. It’s a great honor to say that the United States of America values this relationship. We’re committed to making the world a better place for Americans, Filipinos, and all peace-loving citizens of every nation. Thank you all for giving me your undivided attention. May God bless the United States of America and the Philippines.

Berzowski’s message had a broad implication for the United States government’s long-term economic and political commitments in the Philippines. He delivered another diplomatic success for the Americans. And he sensed it when the attendees gave him a standing ovation.

Not to be outdone by his counterpart, the Philippine Secretary of Foreign Affairs went to the podium and offered a toast. Everyone stood up and waited for the salutation while holding their champagne-filled stem glasses. Long live the Filipino-American friendships! the SECFORAF shouted. Everyone echoed the tribute, and sound of clinking glasses floated in the air.

The event ended with Berzowski and his Filipino colleague walking down the aisle together while the guests cheered until the two diplomats exited the ballroom.

Ryder observed the uniformed police officers move closer to the Press Pen with their arms spread out sideways. He knew the police officers’ changing postures meant one thing—the VIPs were on the way to the lobby. It was his cue, so he raised his Nikon and started taking pictures of people around him.

His company provided him with PNP radio frequencies that he could monitor in the field. So, Ryder reached inside his vest, pulled the retractile-coil cord up to his ear, then pressed the earbud to his earhole. After adjusting the Motorola’s volume, he listened to Torres’s conversation with a PSPG officer while taking pictures of the demonstrators.

Does the RSO know the situation down here? Torres asked.

Yes, sir, the officer replied. "DSS said it’s a go on Plan One."

I hope he knows what he’s doing.

AIC is running the show.

So, tell the Agent-in-Charge the ground is heating up.

AIC is aware of the situation out there.

If he got an idea, he would keep Falcon One inside the hotel.

I have no access to the AIC.

What? Aren’t you the liaison to DSS?

I will ask the RSO.

Falcon One will create trouble in the streets.

Too late, sir. Falcon One is heading to the lobby.

Copy that, Torres said in disgust. Standing by.

Ryder caught the conversation clearly in his earbud, and he thought gross arrogance was dangerous than plain ignorance. Nice to hear Torres bought into his safety concerns. It would be sensible to let Berzowski stay in Manila Hotel rather than take the risk of transporting him to the US embassy amid the raucous protest rally. But then DSS chose to go with Plan One without regard to the threat posed by the unruly demonstrators.

Now that the USDOS delegation decided to leave Manila Hotel, Ryder surveyed the security formations. He didn’t like the setup in the Middle Ring, particularly in the Press Pen. The human cordon along the media section seemed not airtight, and an assassin could use the place as a choke point to stage the kill. Press Pen looked disarrayed with two reporters engaged in a shoving match; each tried to get an advantageous position behind the rope line. It was another telltale sign of a brewing problem.

Ryder wished Berzowski would ignore the horde of reporters for the delegation’s safety. But knowing the secretary’s pattern, the likelihood that the former Army four-star general wouldn’t stop in front of the Press Pen appeared remote. The man’s fondness for on-the-spot briefing, notwithstanding the uncontrolled environment, wasn’t a secret to the beat reporters covering the USDOS. Not even hostile places like Baghdad and Kabul prevented him from addressing the journos in the airfields. His casual demeanor had put tremendous pressure on his security details in the past. No question Berzowski stressed them out again that night.

As Ryder anticipated, the media broke loose from the security cordon when the USDOS delegation stepped out of the hotel lobby. Quickly, he raised his Nikon and started taking wide-angle shots of his surroundings. No, he didn’t aim for good pictures in the horseshoe-shaped driveway. Ryder set his sights on bad people that might be lurking on the ground.

Chapter 3

Ambush Interview

Manila Hotel, Ermita District

Thursday, 2005H (PHT)

Berzowski stopped in front of the Press Pen. He raised his hands, but the eager reporters didn’t calm down; instead, they threw a barrage of questions at him. Relax, everyone. Relax, he said, smiling at the crowd. One question at a time.

Mr. Secretary! Mr. Secretary! the AP correspondent shouted. He thrust the elongated black microphone forward. What’s the real purpose of your trip to Manila? Is it about the military base treaty?

You people sometimes amuse me with your questions, Berzowski said, smiling and showing his almost perfect teeth. Well, of course not. I’m on an official tour in Southeast Asia, and the Philippines is the last country on my list.

What can you say about the Chinese government’s assertion that your visit is tantamount to meddling in the Philippines’ political affairs? the woman from Reuters shouted from the second row.

The ASEAN ministerial consultative group will meet in Manila on Monday. This gathering is why I’m here—to ensure the ASEAN members that the United States is their closest political ally and trading partner. We all want to achieve lasting regional political stability and economic growth.

Can you comment on the local opposition leader’s claim that the US government is influencing the outcome of treaty deliberation in the Philippine Senate? the AFP correspondent asked.

There you go again, people, Berzowski said, still smiling. This kind of accusation is groundless and without merit. I’m telling you that the United States government respects the integrity of the Philippine Senate. Filipino senators are men of principle and independent in their way of thinking. They would vote on what’s good for their country.

DSS close-ins couldn’t keep the reporters steady in the Press Pen anymore. Jostling and shouting in the front row started to get worse. Someone would get hurt if the briefing continued much longer.

Berzowski raised his finger. One more. I know it’s a long day for all of us. We all deserve a good rest tonight. One more question, then I must go.

Not a good parting shot from the Secretary as the reporters shouted in unison, throwing their questions altogether, hoping the diplomat would respond to the loudest of them all.

Okay, the last question goes to you, Berzowski said while cupping his ear. He pointed to a correspondent with a South China Morning Post identification clipped on his Outback vest.

Mr. Secretary, can you comment on the scheduled Sino-Russian war game in the South China Sea on Monday and its consequences to the—

Boom!

A loud explosion from P. Burgos Street got everyone’s attention. Another explosion rocked the street. Both had the distinct sound of grenade blasts.

Danger!

Cave in!

Berzowski heard the DSS Shift Leader (SL) yelling with his order.

Cave in!

The close-ins quickly moved in synchronized motion. They formed a defensive circle around Berzowski—like a human chain around him. Each one grabbed the belt of his fellow security detail, while their other hand brandished a SIG Sauer P229R, aiming at the people around them.

Plan Two! Plan Two!

Berzowski winced from the SL's scream. SL grabbed his belt from behind and pushed his nape downward. He fought back and tried to straighten up. But the hand on his neck was strong like a vise clamp. He surrendered and bent down in submission. SL kept his body below the line of fire as the rest of his close-ins shielded him with their bodies. Together they ran back toward the lobby like a swarm of bees.

Go! Go! Go!

Berzowski tried to stop in his tracks. But SL shoved him forward. He had no other recourse but to run along with his protectors.

Ka-Boom!

Berzowski looked up just in time to see the French doors shattered. It was too late to turn around. And not enough time to close his eyes.

Shock waves instantly kicked the Point Man off his feet. He slammed against Berzowski. Berzowski slammed onto SL. Everyone tumbled to the ground like scattered pop cans.

Berzowski wobbled while attempting to stand up. He could hardly see with his blurry eyes. His hands trembled as he wiped the blood dripping from his forehead.

SL shouted something. Berzowski couldn’t understand the rapid-fire instructions. A buzzing sound in his ears wouldn’t help. He bent down to look for his earpiece and eyeglasses on the ground. Someone pulled him up by his belt.

Ryder readied himself for the subsequent attack. What could happen next? Another bomb explosion? Or bursts of automatic gunfire from the Press Pen? Either one could start any time now.

He scanned the surrounding areas, looking for anyone whose presence didn’t belong to the frenzied crowd. He could counter the threat if given a chance. He moved forward and searched for the assassins.

Ryder’s movement was swift, like a wildcat on the hunt. His Nikon was in automatic mode. He continued taking pictures of the mayhem around him while searching for the killers.

To the car! To the car!

Berzowski heard the SL shouting directions to the security details.

Go! Go! Go!

Too many instructions around him. But Berzowski was sure not one word came from the Point Man. His close-in could be dead from the lobby blast or immobilized on the ground.

Clear the way! Clear the way! Clear the way!

Berzowski ran not by choice but by force from SL, and he ran in a race with his Left and Right Flankers.

Go! Go! Go!

Berzowski couldn’t see the limousine. He wiped the blood oozing from his forehead down to his eyes. Only a ten-meter run to the principal car. A short distance, yet it seemed like a mile to him. His mind whirled while recalling the security drills he practiced with DSS at Fort Pickett.

Go! Go! Go!

Nine meters . . . Eight meters . . . Seven meters . . . Almost there!

Go! Go! Go!

Six more meters!

Go! Go! Go!

An ear-piercing sound bounced off from the ground; it came near Berzowski and his security details.

Boom!

It was loud. It was sudden. It was lethal.

Ryder got up on his knees and tried to stand up. His unstable equilibrium forced him down to the ground again. He pressed his ears hard, summoned his strength, and stood up. He looked around. Where is he? He couldn’t find Berzowski in the driveway. Where is he?

The explosion hit the principal car. Its side panel looked like corrugated cardboard. Not one vehicle in the driveway got away unscathed. Mangled bodies scattered on the ground. Some without arms. Some without legs.

Loud cries squealed underneath the canopy slab; calls came from the journalists trapped under the concrete. Two reporters walked around aimlessly in their bloodied clothes. Others who couldn’t move just stayed on the pavement; their terrifying screams continued without letup.

Manila Hotel would become a crime scene soon; the police would declare the ground off-limits to the civilians.

Ryder must beat the first responders to the spot and find clues, something that would lead him to the bombers. He checked the people lying in the driveway and spotted two men near the lobby entrance. He recognized the older man from his photo coverage. On top of him was a young man drenched in blood, with his back nothing more than a gaping hole. He looked around and saw Torres helping a police officer to a gurney.

Colonel! Ryder shouted while holding two plastic cards up in the air.

Torres came over, checked the IDs, and then looked at the two bodies. Oh, God. SECFORAF and his security aide.

We need to move them out of here, Ryder said.

You’re right. We can’t let the media snap a picture of them in this horrific condition.

Torres stopped a passing PSPG officer. He gave him instructions, then the Inspector left and returned with two stretchers and three CDCU officers. They carried the two dead men to a waiting ambulance.

Are you okay?

I’m all right, Colonel.

You’re bleeding all over.

I’m good. Minor wounds. Ryder wiped his head and arms. He looked at the blood on his hand and said, Darn it. He pulled a scarf from his vest and pressed it on his forehead.

Torres thought that he saw everything a gruesome battlefield could throw at him. He didn’t expect himself to tear up for no apparent reason. In his thirty-five years of combined service in the military and the police force, surely, he couldn’t be an emotional guy.

Colonel, are you okay?

Yes, yes, Torres said while covering his eyes with his handkerchief.

Take a deep breath, sir.

Torres felt a burning sensation on his eyelids; his nose became itchy and painful. He opened his eyes and saw Ryder wiping his face, too.

Oleoresin Capsicum. Tear gas.

Not good. Just not good, Torres said.

PNP SWAT teams’ tear gas spread throughout Rizal Park when the strong wind from Manila de Bay carried the peppery-chemical substance toward Manila Hotel.

Torres looked in the direction of the park when he heard a staccato sound of gunfire. His Unit was after the demonstrators; he hoped the shooters weren’t the Sparrows. He could live with that thought peacefully.

Oh, what a nightmarish evening, Ryder.

It’s happening in front of us, Colonel.

Chapter 4

Usual Suspects

Paseo De Roxas, Makati City

Thursday, 2015H (PHT)

A phone call interrupted DG, NICA’s dinner with his Indonesian counterpart at the Sala restaurant.

Say that again? the Director-General exclaimed on the phone. Bombings at the hotel?

Yes, a couple of minutes ago, the Assistant Director-General (ADG) for the Directorate of Operations reported.

How did it happen?

Security lapse, Mistah.

There are thousands of security personnel in the area, yes?

Yet still the bombers breached Task Force’s security rings.

Nincompoops!

Remote controls probably set off bombs.

Or by suicide bombers, the DG interjected. We have no report on the plot, yes? Any idea who did it?

Probably JI or AQ. Both orgs bombed us before.

What about local groups? RGP comes up in NCRO reports, the DG said, referring to NICA’s National Capital Region Office.

RGP plans to sabotage the rally. Only to embarrass the government in front of foreign media, the ADG said.

We shared the info with Task Force Dragonfly, yes?

NCRO told TFD that the Sparrow Units would only disrupt the rally.

What?

We kept it secret to protect our action agent inside RGP.

DG realized the consequence of NICA’s compartmentalization. I want the reporting Case Officer to go back to his source. Find out if RGP took part in the bombings.

Our source is operating deep inside the terror cell. It may take some time to bring him out in the open.

Forget security protocols. The current situation dictates that we act fast. Time is of the essence. Tell the agent-handler to make emergency contact. ASAP.

I’ll order NCRO, the ADG said.

Activate OPCON. Declare an agency-wide red alert.

I’ll instruct OPCON to send flash radio messages to the field stations.

One more thing. I want a personal meeting with the CIA Station Chief.

I’ll notify FOD, the ADG said, referring to the Foreign Operations Directorate.

No channels, Mistah. I want a direct line with the Chief.

Yes, I’ll make sure it happens.

Get those bombers at all costs.

Will do, Mistah.

DG and ADG knew the political fallouts caused by NICA’s failure to detect and prevent the bombings. Their tenure of office hung in the balance; they had to act fast before the presidential memo declaring their termination became a reality. So, the immediate response to the crisis was activating NICA’s spec-ops group.

Should I mobilize SPECOBRA?

Imperative! DG snarled on the phone. Turn the COBRA loose!

The aide-de-camp (ADC) reviewed Gabriel Cruz’s itinerary in the coming weeks. His schedule showed meeting after meeting and left no breathing room for the security team. After scribbling notes on the duty roster sheet, he placed the organizer inside the leather suitcase.

He checked his wristwatch; it said 8:20 in the evening. The reflectorized white-and-green road sign showed 130 kilometers to Manila. If the driver continued to push the Range Rover’s accelerator pedal on the floor, his boss would reach the National Intelligence Coordinating Agency (NICA) Home Office in about an hour or so.

ADC pulled down the sun visor and checked on Cruz from the small mirror on the flap. His boss worked hard. Even while traveling, Cruz kept himself busy reading field reports and phoning staff at the Home Office. But that night, he wasn’t his usual self; he’d only said a few words since leaving his friend’s birthday party.

It was a long day for everyone in the three-vehicle convoy. The trip to Regional Field Station 3 in San Fernando, La Union—a province north of Metro Manila—could’ve worn out Cruz. His head pressed on the seat’s headrest, his eyes closed, and his arms folded across his chest.

ADC reached for the radio transceiver under the dashboard. He lowered the Motorola’s volume, then let Chopin’s Nocturne No. 9 play inside the Rover. His boss sat quietly during the ride while reflecting on the festive mood at RFS-3. Undoubtedly, the time spent at the field station provided an emotional shot to Cruz.

Cruz enjoyed the light moment with his colleagues. Singing karaoke with his Frank Sinatra-like voice made him the star of the day. He laughed hard while exchanging anecdotes. Living together like ordinary people, even for a few hours, reminded him of something he'd missed in life.

When his wife died after a bout with cancer, Cruz buried himself in office work—a therapy that helped him divert his mind--away from the memory of his dearest. He reported to the office early morning and stayed until the evening. A somber habit he didn’t mind at all. But not to his office staff, who became resentful of the copious hours they all had to work.

But not only his team complained about his demanding routine. The nanny said his children grumbled about not seeing much of him anymore. He acted like a bachelor with his frequent work-related road trips—no more weekend outings to their vacation home. And the conversations with his children were mostly one-liners like: How’s your day? Did you eat already? What time are you coming back from school?

It dawned on Cruz that his relationship with his children drifted afar. He might not get it back if he maintained that kind of lifestyle. He became a selfish and uncaring father. His kids were suffering the same way he was hurting—they’d lost a loved one, too. In their case, they practically lost both parents in his absence to bury his grief at work.

It was inconsiderate to think they didn’t miss him. His children needed him now more than anything else in the world. And he wasn’t there by their sides when it mattered most. He thought of his youngest daughter. His nanny said she cried to sleep at night every time he was away.

So, on the way home from RFS-3, he phoned his nanny and instructed her to prepare a proper dinner. He would dine with his children. He needed to catch up with the missed times and to find out what went on with their lives. The thought of redeeming himself from his inadequacies lifted his spirit. He couldn’t wait to tell everyone how much he loved them so dearly.