Read Online Gray Resurrection by Alan McDermott - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan McDermott
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to Mansour that he wasn’t
much of a conversationalist, and equally apparent that there were not enough
men to carry all of the baggage he had brought. Jun saw this too, and
ordered half of the consignment to be camouflaged and appointed two armed
guards to watch over it. The rest of the boxes were picked up and Jun led
the way into the jungle, with Mansour and Shah following in his footsteps.
The march to the camp was slow going,
mainly due to the weight of the boxes but also because they were avoiding known
tracks, instead relying on Jun to cut a way through the dense vegetation with
his bolo. This turned out to be the most intense part of his journey,
knowing that somewhere on this small island there were close to two hundred
U.S. and Filipino troops who would just love to get their hands on him, and
here they were crawling along at a snail’s pace.
They stopped twice on their way to the
camp, the second time for over an hour as a patrol ventured close. They
crouched in silence as the soldiers made camp just thirty yards away and
started cooking up their lunch. Mansour could see a few of the Abu Sayyaf
were itching to take them on but Jun threw them looks which warned them to just
stay quiet. Eventually the patrol moved on and they were able to make the
last mile and a half without further encounters.
It was hardly recognisable as a camp.
The only distinguishing feature was the number of people gathered in the small
clearing, with no permanent structures to suggest they would remain here for
any length of time.
Abu Assaf came to greet them effusively,
arms spread wide and a toothless smile on his face, then ushered them over to a
log next to a small fire. Three large fish were cooking over the flames
and a pot of rice bubbled away on a small gas stove. Mansour suddenly
realised that he hadn’t eaten in over twenty hours and graciously accepted the
invitation to dine.
“I understand you have gifts for us,”
Assaf said in excellent English, the accent British.
Mansour nodded and led him over to the
boxes arranged at the centre of the clearing. The first one he opened was
the size of a family suitcase and contained nothing but cash, over two million
American dollars in twenties and fifties, and Mansour was glad to note that
Assaf’s reaction was muted appreciation. There were no signs of greed on
the man’s face, just a look that said “this could come in handy.”
The next box to be opened revealed
dozens of brand new M16 rifles still wrapped in protective wax paper.
“Rather than AK-47s, we decided to provide weapons your enemies use because
this way you can make use of any captured ammunition,” Mansour said.
He gestured to a couple of boxes and
explained that they were full of 5.56mm rounds for the rifles, then opened the
next container.
“Claymore mines,” he said, lifting one
out to show it to Assaf. “These will help with setting up defensive perimeters
and discouraging your enemies from following you,” he explained when he saw the
look of confusion.
He smiled as he pointed to the next
three boxes. “These will be the difference between a struggle with the
AFP and driving them out of the land,” he said. Releasing the catches on
one of the lids, he swung it open to reveal a Dillon Aero M134 Mini-gun.
The six-barrelled weapon fired 7.62mm bullets at an astonishing fifty
rounds-per-second, fed from a 4400-round magazine.
“In the other boxes I have grenades, C4
explosive, ammunition for the M134 and twenty single-shot RPG-27s. Bear
in mind, this is just a down payment on the support we are willing to offer
you.”
“What are you asking in return?” Assaf
asked, clearly satisfied with the gifts.
Mansour placed an arm around his
shoulder and led him away to a quiet spot at the edge of the clearing.
“We want only what you want: to drive the infidels from the land. To do
that you must become a force to be reckoned with, and I will show you how.
The
much of a conversationalist, and equally apparent that there were not enough
men to carry all of the baggage he had brought. Jun saw this too, and
ordered half of the consignment to be camouflaged and appointed two armed
guards to watch over it. The rest of the boxes were picked up and Jun led
the way into the jungle, with Mansour and Shah following in his footsteps.
The march to the camp was slow going,
mainly due to the weight of the boxes but also because they were avoiding known
tracks, instead relying on Jun to cut a way through the dense vegetation with
his bolo. This turned out to be the most intense part of his journey,
knowing that somewhere on this small island there were close to two hundred
U.S. and Filipino troops who would just love to get their hands on him, and
here they were crawling along at a snail’s pace.
They stopped twice on their way to the
camp, the second time for over an hour as a patrol ventured close. They
crouched in silence as the soldiers made camp just thirty yards away and
started cooking up their lunch. Mansour could see a few of the Abu Sayyaf
were itching to take them on but Jun threw them looks which warned them to just
stay quiet. Eventually the patrol moved on and they were able to make the
last mile and a half without further encounters.
It was hardly recognisable as a camp.
The only distinguishing feature was the number of people gathered in the small
clearing, with no permanent structures to suggest they would remain here for
any length of time.
Abu Assaf came to greet them effusively,
arms spread wide and a toothless smile on his face, then ushered them over to a
log next to a small fire. Three large fish were cooking over the flames
and a pot of rice bubbled away on a small gas stove. Mansour suddenly
realised that he hadn’t eaten in over twenty hours and graciously accepted the
invitation to dine.
“I understand you have gifts for us,”
Assaf said in excellent English, the accent British.
Mansour nodded and led him over to the
boxes arranged at the centre of the clearing. The first one he opened was
the size of a family suitcase and contained nothing but cash, over two million
American dollars in twenties and fifties, and Mansour was glad to note that
Assaf’s reaction was muted appreciation. There were no signs of greed on
the man’s face, just a look that said “this could come in handy.”
The next box to be opened revealed
dozens of brand new M16 rifles still wrapped in protective wax paper.
“Rather than AK-47s, we decided to provide weapons your enemies use because
this way you can make use of any captured ammunition,” Mansour said.
He gestured to a couple of boxes and
explained that they were full of 5.56mm rounds for the rifles, then opened the
next container.
“Claymore mines,” he said, lifting one
out to show it to Assaf. “These will help with setting up defensive perimeters
and discouraging your enemies from following you,” he explained when he saw the
look of confusion.
He smiled as he pointed to the next
three boxes. “These will be the difference between a struggle with the
AFP and driving them out of the land,” he said. Releasing the catches on
one of the lids, he swung it open to reveal a Dillon Aero M134 Mini-gun.
The six-barrelled weapon fired 7.62mm bullets at an astonishing fifty
rounds-per-second, fed from a 4400-round magazine.
“In the other boxes I have grenades, C4
explosive, ammunition for the M134 and twenty single-shot RPG-27s. Bear
in mind, this is just a down payment on the support we are willing to offer
you.”
“What are you asking in return?” Assaf
asked, clearly satisfied with the gifts.
Mansour placed an arm around his
shoulder and led him away to a quiet spot at the edge of the clearing.
“We want only what you want: to drive the infidels from the land. To do
that you must become a force to be reckoned with, and I will show you how.
The
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