Free Sudden Threat by AJ Tata Page B

were about five feet high, filled with tan boxes of rations and other supplies. As Matt pressed his body into the back of the pallet, trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible, he noticed that flexible white binding straps secured each box. He was unable to see the man now, save for the toe of a cowboy boot that was pointing in his direction.
    Matt felt the pallet tug and heard a “pop” followed by some rustling noises. Soon the boot toe turned in the opposite direction and he heard both cargo doors close on either side of the airplane.
    Confident that the man had not seen him, Matt peered around the corner and saw him stepping into the cockpit holding a combat ration in one hand.
    Soon thereafter, they were speeding along the smooth waters of Cateel Bay until they were finally airborne.
    To God knows where.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 13

 
    The climb through the treacherous mountains had nearly killed Abe. The only thing keeping him alive, he knew, was his physical-conditioning regimen for the past six months. The same path that had led to his capture had prepared him to survive the kidnapping.
    Upon waking, Abe sensed he was still bound and gagged, his back smarting from the fall and the tips of his fingers bloody and sore. He had heard of such Islamic extremists, and how they were capable of such actions, but never expected anything to happen to him. He was sure he could reason with them. A Filipino voice spoke to him in broken English, occasionally mixing in a couple of Japanese words. A hand tore off the gag and placed a cup of water to his lips. Abe thanked the provider, using slightly better English. The Filipino asked him questions, and he responded. Still blindfolded, Abe had the sense that others were around him, listening.
    “What you doing here?” the voice asked him.
    “I manufacture,” he replied. “You Abu Sayyaf?” Abe’s weak voice asked.
    “Abu Sayyaf! I spit on Abu Sayyaf!” the man said. He sensed the man move, as if to elevate, perhaps preparing to strike him.
    “What make?”
    Abe told him that they were making helicopters and tanks for the Filipinos so they could achieve independence from foreign powers and fight the insurgency.
    “Traitor!” the Filipino screamed, slapping him across the face.
    Abe felt others move quietly around his questioner, perhaps pulling him back.
    The man regained his composure, though, and continued questioning.
    “Japanese?”
    “Yes. Japanese,” Abe responded.
    “Other Japanese with you?” Again Abe responded affirmative.
    “Name?”
    “Abe. Mister Kanishi Abe,” he said slowly.
    The questioning continued, and Abe gladly told them everything. He mentioned the number of Japanese in his plant and the number of plants, as well as how long the facility had been operating. One plant produced small arms, such as rifles and pistols, he believed, while his and two others made tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, and attack helicopters. He kept reiterating that the weapons had been ordered by the recognized government of the Philippines. At least that is what Mr. Takishi had told him.
    Abe simply did not understand what all of the confusion was about. Needless to say, he was scared. Despite his fear, he realized that his situation was definitely good material for a poem; something to do with the blinded man groping for reason.
    The images of his family tumbled through his mind as a wave of sadness settled over him. He was tired, hungry, and had no quarrel with his captors. It would be so simple to let him go. The hand placed a bowl of rice in his lap, and he ate voraciously but awkwardly, with his hands still cuffed.
    “Let him eat,” a voice said.
    “I think he’s telling the truth,” another spoke.
    “Agree, but keep him tied up.”
    Abe heard the new voices. They were Americans.
    What were Americans doing kidnapping him from his main battle tank production plant on Mindanao? The Americans, he knew, had authorized and paid for much